The Lost
by The Starhorse
Summary: A series of lifechanging events involving Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, told from different points of view. Written in 2002, long before it would become painfully obvious that I could have chosen a better title...
1. Though I Walk Through the Shadow

**Author's Note: **Since I took this off of my website (which is now defunct), I've had some very nice requests from people who would still like to see this story. I really appreciate everyone's kind words, so I am making it available here. However, this is the only place where this story should be posted -- either in full _or in part_. Thank you.

And now, on with the story...

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Most nights I can't sleep. Most nights, I hook up to the recharge station, I lay on my bunk in my quarters, and I stare at the ceiling for as long as I can. That way I don't see them. I don't see the things that are behind my eyes, the things that are so far down in the blue of my optics that no one would know there's a city eternally burning there, or dead bodies, or the charred remains of everyone I ever knew.

I guess a better way of putting it is to say I'm afraid to sleep. What I try to do is push myself to the point where I can just barely stay awake, and then I dive for the cover of unconsciousness and squeeze my optics shut on the way, hoping and praying I don't see my city burning for the hundred thousandth time. And for the most part, it works. Except, I never quite make it without at least a glimpse.

At least, until tonight. I don't know what to make of it, whether it's good or bad, or why it keeps popping into my head, but there it is. There it is, over and over, just like my city, only it's worse and better all at the same time, and it makes me feel so sad and so happy, and so very _lucky_.

* * *

Let me think…it was four days ago, or was it five? Yes. Five days ago, we rolled out to assault a newly discovered power station that the Decepticons were constructing. It was the first time in a long while that we were on the offensive, and it made me feel queasy and a little unreal, as if my head were detached from my shoulders. Before dawn even broke, we were on our way, and there was something about the bleakness of it, something about the smell of the black, sunless desert breezing by that made me shiver a little. Not to mention that everyone was just too quiet.

"Get off me, Bluestreak," I heard Sunstreaker snarl. I came to just in time to realize I had almost clipped his rear quarter-panel, and that was bad. Better to clip Tracks than Sunstreaker, I always say. Tracks will moan and whine, but Sunstreaker…well, most 'bots I know are just a little afraid of Sunstreaker. He'll get you every time.

"Sorry," I mumbled and moved over. I looked to the eastern horizon, which was sliding by at nearly a hundred miles an hour. We were skimming over the desert in a quiet, lightless formation, heading toward a valley just a few minutes away from our position, and I realized that I didn't remember leaving base, nor did I recall the last hour of driving. I was getting that old feeling of dread again, the one that always paralyzes me if I let it, and I knew I better find some way to get rid of it. Slowly, I dropped back and looked for someone to talk to.

Hound rode at the edge of the right flank, and I sidled right up to him. "Better get back in line," he said quietly, before I even had a chance to say hello.

"I almost hit Sunstreaker," I told him without preamble.

"Oh," he offered a sympathetic chuckle. "Yeah, that would have been bad. Better to hit Sideswipe than him. They're always together, so if you have to swerve one way, swerve into the red one. 'Cause Sunstreaker –"

"—will get you, yeah," I finished. "I know. So will Sideswipe, though."

"Mm," mused Hound. "You have a point. Though Siders won't get you for paint. Gotta piss him off worse than that. Still safer to go for him, I say. If you gotta hit someone, that is." The green jeep lurched over a rock, then steadied himself out of a minor skid. His vehicle form wasn't used to these speeds. "So," he asked gently, "you hitting people for a reason this morning?"

"No," I answered him, knowing full well he knew I was afraid.

"Just losing track of time again, hm?"

"Yeah," I said, and edged a little closer.

We rode along like that for another few minutes, and I was just looking into the predawn dark, wishing I could keep driving on into it long after the rest of the Autobots stopped to fight, when Hound spoke up again. "Hey, Blue, don't worry about spacing out this morning. And don't worry about Sunstreaker, 'cause he'll take it out on the 'Cons. You just worry about your job, because you're awful good at it, and once you get to shooting, you can forget to be nervous. You always do."

"Yeah," I agreed, "yeah, you're right. Shooting's always good." It was. It always took my mind off of things. Still does.

"So go ahead back to formation." Hound nudged over, pushing me away. "We're almost there."

So I went back to my place, not really feeling any better, but grateful at least that Hound took my mind off of things for a few minutes, anyway. Hound's good like that. He never asks too many questions, and never pokes fun when I admit I don't like my job. I don't like doing what those 'Cons did to my city. Sure, I like paying them back, but I can never get over the sight of those burned, twisted bodies, and I can never quite make myself like contributing to the immortal pile. I see it like that. I see this eternal death count piled high with the broken bodies of friends and of people who were once loved more than anything. I see that, and I just don't like adding to it. I told Hound that once, and he didn't laugh. I even told him why I felt that way; I told him about my city, and he didn't take that lightly either. Hound's good like that. He's a good listener.

But I couldn't think about Hound anymore, because I was in line again just beside Sunstreaker, who just seemed so deadly quiet. I looked sideways at the yellow Lamborghini and felt that awful, creeping dread again, as if I were riding right next to everything I dreaded instead of just toward it. But then I remembered he was on our side, and before I knew it, we were there, and the shooting was starting before I even heard the order to fire.

Despite my misgivings, the battle went surprisingly well. There were fewer 'Cons there than intel had suspected, and even though Menasor formed up, we were able to harass him until he pretty much lost his cool. The other Decepticons had beat a fairly hasty retreat after realizing how badly outnumbered they were, and all that was left for us to do was to lay down demolitions and, of course, to finish up dealing with Menasor.

Which is why I had just started to relax when it happened. I had already let my guard down, and I hate that I did that. I hate that I was caught unaware again, and unprepared for what I saw. I hate seeing. I hate the pictures behind my eyes, and most of all I hate that more and more pictures keep adding themselves to the pile.

Almost everyone was watching. Swoop and Slag had Menasor worked into such a frenzy that it was really funny, and most of us were standing well to the side and cheering the show. The Dinobots were in no danger, and they were having fun, so we let 'em at it. Problem was, nobody realized how close Menasor was getting to where Sunstreaker was stuck. In his rage, Menasor had dislodged part of the cliff, and the resulting avalanche had pinned Sunstreaker against the cliff face. Sideswipe was over there with his pile drivers, trying to dig his brother out without injuring him too much when Menasor suddenly took a bunch of reeling steps backward, and grabbed another chunk of the cliff.

Everybody saw it coming. Everybody just froze, 'cause that was all we could do, being too far away to help. Trailbreaker screamed Sideswipe's name in warning, and the red warrior looked up in time to see that the large chunk of mountain that Menasor had thrown at the Dinobots had missed its mark, and was heading instead for the brothers. He had a split second to leap clear, and my throat locked up and I nearly choked when I saw him brace himself instead. Brace and wince. Then the boulder slammed him into Sunstreaker.

We rushed over as fast as we could. The Dinobots made quick work of Menasor, and the whole battlefield went eerily quiet as we neared the two downed Autobots. I remember thinking I would be sick as Brawn pulled back the boulder and found Sideswipe crushed, and Sunstreaker pinned and battered, but conscious, thanks to Sideswipe taking up most of the boulder's impact. I remember Sunstreaker's face looking lifeless with shock, and slowly blinking only when Trailbreaker shouted his name about ten times. Trailbreaker always liked the twins. He was always nice to them, and for some reason they always took extra care of him in return, which is why it was so awful for me to watch Trailbreaker shout and shake Sunstreaker back from wherever his mind had gone.

As for Sideswipe, I just plain didn't want to look. But look I did, (everyone always looks), and to our surprise, we found that Sideswipe was alive. Not that we had time to celebrate. He was mangled, and he had internal systems spilling out onto the valley floor that should never have seen the light of day, but he was at least functional. Barely. Good thing Ratchet was along, or he never would have made it back to base.

It was an awful ride back. I was fine, and feeling relieved that I'd lived through another battle, and guilty that I was so relieved when Sideswipe was so near death, and it made me want to race ahead of the convoy to let off steam. But we had to drive slow enough not to kill Sideswipe outright by bouncing him around in Optimus' trailer, and so I fishtailed around like an idiot, just trying to get my mind off of things. Again. Not that it helped. How could it help, when I was stuck with the plain fact that I was scared witless before every battle, while the twins roared in, fierce as a pair of hurricanes and flinging themselves into the very worst of it? And how could I hide from the fact that there was not a soul in the universe for whom I would take a fast-moving boulder, instead of getting the hell out of the way? How could Sideswipe have done that? It wasn't something he thought about. It wasn't like he had time to consider how much of his life he would have had left to live, or how much the boulder would hurt, or whether he deserved life more than Sunstreaker did. No, taking that boulder for Sunstreaker was something he had long ago decided. And not only had he _decided_ to sacrifice himself, he had actually _done_ it when the time came. Brace and wince. It had all come down to that, and in a split second.

That act was the act of a true Autobot. And you know what? I couldn't do it. Not for a soul. For five days I've thought about it, and to be honest, wished real hard I could be that brave, but I've come to the conclusion that I just don't have the stuff.

But that's not what bothers me now. I can live with being kinda freaked out by war. That's just any normal guy's reaction, I think. Matter of fact, I think the twins are the ones who aren't normal. Them and the Dinobots. Most everybody else would have jumped out of that boulder's way.

No, that's not what bothers me, and that's not what keeps me from sleeping. It's scarier than that, and it goes way deeper than I think anything has a right to go. All I know now is that there are worse things than seeing your whole city burned to rubble and slag. Much worse things.

Sunstreaker was stricken. For the whole ride back he sat in Prime's trailer, staring in Sideswipe's general direction, his mouth slightly open as though he had gasped in a breath, but never let it out. Or at least that's how Ratchet described it. I know how he felt. I remember feeling that way the day I saw my friends' faces staring blankly out of the soot. I remember breathing in without breathing out. That's a good way to put it, and I should tell Ratchet so some day.

They worked all that day and night on Sideswipe, with Sunstreaker sitting nearby and staring. His legs had been broken, his left nearly twisted off at the knee, and his chestplate was all but caved in, but no one was able to work on him since they were all frantically trying to save his brother. Sunstreaker never seemed to notice that he was in any pain. They said he just sat and stared, and that his face never changed, and he never said a word, and they were just beginning to think something had fritzed inside his CPU when he finally spoke up. It was very early in the morning when they stabilized the red warrior enough for someone to take a look at Sunstreaker. Ratchet went over to assess his damage.

"You alright?" the medic asked, looking for lifesign. I guess he got none, so he started poking and prodding, even pushing his fingers into Sunstreaker's shredded knee to see if the warrior was at all responsive, but Sunstreaker didn't even flinch. "Sunny?" Ratchet tried again, and he told me later that he thought right then and there that we'd lost both the twins in one day.

"One won't live without the other," was his conclusion, and it gave me that first awful feeling that still bothers me now.

But it seemed Sunstreaker wasn't quite ready for death, not with Sideswipe still hanging onto life, and Ratchet said he just reached out and touched the medic's arm, ever so lightly, without taking his optics off of his brother. "He shouldn't have done that. He can't do that."

"Well, he could and he did," was Ratchet's gruff reply. "And you better be thankful, too, because the way I saw it, that boulder was on its way to taking your head clean off at the shoulders. You'd have never had a chance, and he knew it." It was Ratchet's way of putting his patients to rights. He'd grouse and boss and scold, and he'd never allow for self-pity or any sort of defeatism.

But he couldn't contend with the shock and guilt that hung all over Sunstreaker's face at being the one left alive, and so the medic merely patched the warrior up, and sent him on his way. Or tried to. Sunstreaker wouldn't leave, of course, and ensconced himself in a corner of the med bay where he could watch while the medics worked on Sideswipe through the long hours of the day. Several times they thought they'd lost him, or so Ratchet told me later, and he said that each time was worse, and that each time the monitors blinked to life once more, the medic's hands would shake just a little harder.

"My hands never shake," he growled at me, his face darkened with fury. It was late the second night, and Ratchet was taking a much-needed break. I was the only one around to talk to. "And I've worked on that rotten little sneak more times than half the other Autobots put together, so my hands should be able to work without my optics even watching. It's just…" he looked down at his hands, which were trembling gently on the table, "…maybe I've gotten so used to working on those particular internals, it'd just seem wrong if this were the last time." At that he frowned deeply, and I'll admit that it surprised me that Ratchet should take Sideswipe's injuries so personally. It bothered me, too. But before I could think about it too much, the medic furrowed his brow and said, "And then there's that damnable Sunstreaker…" his optics narrowed as he paused, obviously rolling some thought around, "…that's it. That's it!" He slammed a fist down on the table and got up. "I can't work with him in there! He goes!"

So Sunstreaker was unceremoniously ejected from med bay, because after all, the medics were there to work, and not to coddle anyone's feelings. They couldn't afford to, and I know that's the truth, because I've seen some pretty grim situations get dumped into that bay, and there's only one way to deal with those, and that's squarely and efficiently. No time for thinking about who's under the scalpel, or who's watching, or whose brother might be slowly and ungracefully leaking his life away all over the table and floors. No, none of that nonsense. Someone else could pick Sunstreaker's feelings up off the floor. For now, Ratchet had to concentrate.

Which is why we found Sunstreaker sitting on the floor just outside the med bay door, head cradled in one hand while he absently rubbed his temples with a thumb and forefinger. Gears and I were just coming around the corner when Gears nearly tripped over the yellow warrior.

"Ach!" Gears squawked and flailed, backing up to catch his balance. "Well, that's just a wonderful place to sit yourself." He glared down at Sunstreaker, obviously expecting a response, and when he got none, he gave me a look of longsuffering exasperation. I was hoping he'd just drop it, given the look on Sunstreaker's face and all, but if you know Gears, then you know once he feels he's been wronged, he just has to complain about it. "You know," he spoke down his nose at the yellow Autobot, "it's not like it would kill you to care that other people use this hallway, or that other people might get hurt coming 'round the corner and finding you smack in their path."

I shifted my feet, wishing I could think of a sensible way out of the situation, but I couldn't think of anything to say to hush Gears up, and neither could I just leave him there to needle Sunstreaker. Primus knows how that would have ended up. I stared uncomfortably downward at the yellow Autobot, who sat in a miserable huddle with his knees drawn up and his head propped in his hands, as though it was too heavy for him to hold up. Slowly, methodically, he rubbed his temples, looking for all the world as if he were on his last reserves of energy. "Come on, Gears," I mumbled, trying to take the shorter Autobot's arm, but he wasn't ready to be appeased.

Jerking his arm away from me, he took a step closer to Sunstreaker, and gave it his best shot at looming. "I am speaking to you," he informed the yellow warrior, "and I think if you were decent you would give me a response."

He got his response. Like a cat, Sunstreaker pounced and spun, slamming Gears to the wall so hard the bulkhead buckled inward, and Gears' optics flew wide. I took several steps back, remembering very quickly why exactly I had always harbored a little bit of fear where Sunstreaker was concerned, but in case Gears had forgotten, Sunstreaker sure was reminding him now. Holding the little Autobot's feet just off the floor, Sunstreaker slammed him against the wall three times in quick succession, just enough to rattle his head around and buzz his circuitry a bit, and then he leaned in and said in a low voice, "Get…away…from me."

Sunstreaker let go and Gears' legs went to rubber beneath him, and he sagged against the wall, jaw hanging for a split second before recovering enough of his motor skills to scurry away. I hurried after him, stepping lightly around Sunstreaker, who didn't even seem aware that I was there, and that was just fine by me. I could hear footsteps approaching quickly behind us, and that was even better. Let whoever that is deal with Sunstreaker, I thought to myself, hoping it was Trailbreaker or Ironhide or at least just someone big.

As it turned it out, it was several someones big. The Dinobots, having been nearby, and having heard lot of slamming about, came thundering down the halls to investigate. I wasn't there by then, of course, but I can only imagine that made things even worse. They sure wouldn't be intimidated by anything Sunstreaker could do to them, but Sunstreaker's mouth can be as cutting as any weapon he has on him, and the Dinobots can be so thin-skinned. In any case, I heard later that Optimus himself got called down to sort things out, and by the time all was said and done, the Dinobots were mollified, all except for Slag, and Sunstreaker was coaxed down into the Autobot lounge, where he took up a sullen vigil in the corner that provided the best view of the door. Nobody went near him.

A hell of a time to leave him alone, I recall thinking. Why couldn't Gears have just let him stay huddled in peaceable misery outside of medbay instead of provoking him? Well, if you ask me, I'd say it's pretty much the same reason that no one wanted to talk to him once he got to the lounge. You see, it's that old rule about not getting too emotionally involved. I mean, sure, we all like each other, and most of us even owe our lives to each other, and because of the pressures we all face together, we have this really strong camaraderie. Heck, out on the battlefield, it's like even the Dinobots are a part of us, and we can all stand around after a battle and grin and slap each others' backs and feel as large as life. But Primus forbid that anyone gets too involved.

Oh, no. That, you see, is the cardinal rule. Yeah, I mean, you have friends, and you sure hate it when you see them go down in a battle, but there's always that guard you keep up that holds everyone _just_ a little bit at bay because, for Primus' sake, what if you let someone get close to you and then you lost them?

We've all done that. I looked around the lounge that day, taking in the faces, thinking of the stories told and knowing that everyone in the room had someone they'd gotten real close to, only to eventually see them die. I looked at everyone's faces, and I saw that slightly closed look that said, "I like you, and I'll be buddies with you, and I'll even be real sorry should you ever go down in flames, but by Primus, I'll never love you. Because I just don't have it in me anymore." These Autobots, they had taken a square look at that kind of involvement, and they just weren't having any more of it, plain and simple.

Except for one. Two really, if he lived. Big if.

And no one seemed to care. Well, they cared. I mean, Sideswipe had saved the lives of most of the 'Bots in that room, and besides that, he was funny. He was damnably funny, in fact, and everyone liked him so much they even found themselves liking Sunstreaker by association. I mean, the two of them could be downright hysterical when they wanted to be. It was as if Sideswipe's mere presence pulled Sunstreaker's better side out of him, and between their constant battle to one-up each other, and Sideswipe's absolute zest for anything fun, those two seemed to keep the ball of life rolling around the Ark. They were like a pair of those raptors I saw on Jurassic Park, quick and charismatic and nasty and comical all at once, and everyone absolutely loved 'em.

Well, maybe not 'loved.' Applauded them, maybe, and enjoyed their antics, but not loved. Nobody loved anybody. Cardinal rule, remember?

Which is why nobody went out of their way to console Sunstreaker. Trailbreaker went over to try to cheer him up, and so did Ironhide, but 'cheering' someone up isn't exactly the same as leveling with them, is it? And why is it that so many people try to inject cheer into someone who's suffering, when everyone knows that when it's their own turn to suffer, they don't want cheer? That kind of cheer sucks, actually. That kind of cheer is just a way of lying and saying, "I'm alright, despite the fact that my twin is slowly dying down the hall, all because of me, and there isn't slag I can do about it." No, that kind of cheer is just for show, and the people trying to spread that kind of cheer are only doing it so they can feel better. I mean, as long as Sunstreaker looks like hell, we're all reminded of the kind of pain we've been through, what with losing close friends and all, and nobody wants to be reminded of that.

So they tried to cheer him up, and once they felt they'd 'done their best', they turned tail and left him alone. I watched him out of the corner of my optic, thinking that someone ought to do the right thing and just go sit with him, if nothing else. Maybe if someone just sat there with him, and even if they didn't say anything, at least he wouldn't have had that awful, vacant look on his face, and maybe he wouldn't have looked so utterly abandoned. I'd never seen Sunstreaker look so…bewildered. But did I mention that I have this tiny, very sensible fear of Sunstreaker, especially when Sideswipe's not around? Yeah, I left him alone, too.

For four days he sat like that, neither shutting down nor recharging, and I suspected that if Sideswipe didn't walk through that door soon, Sunstreaker would just let his charge drain right away. Ratchet was right. I saw it in his optics. Maybe it was some kind of physiological bond or something, and maybe it was more than that, but it was clear to me that one twin would simply not outlive the other.

But then on the fifth day, Sideswipe made his grinning entrance, and all that awful tension disappeared in a snap. Cheers went up as everyone caught sight of him, and suddenly there was a lot of hooping and hollering and all that back-slapping and shoulder-grabbing that comes at those times. Everyone laughed and called him 'pancake' and 'grease spot', and accused him of being slower than a rock, and in return, Sideswipe flashed his foxlike grin and winced a little every time someone gave him a hearty clap on the shoulder, as he was obviously still recovering.

Which of course meant that nobody was looking at Sunstreaker. Nobody but me, that is, and so I was the only one that saw the look in his optics that made me feel so awfully bad and good and _lucky_ all at once. It floored me, and when I saw his expression I felt this kind of sick confusion crawl all over me until suddenly it all clicked, and I understood. You see, Sunstreaker, when he first saw Sideswipe walk through that door, looked disappointed.

I was stunned. So stunned, in fact, that I forgot to join in all the cheering, and could only watch Sunstreaker as he leaped up from his seat to hurry across the room. Of course by then he wore a look of incredible relief, and it wasn't fake, either. He strode through the crowd, scattering the other Autobots like leaves before a wind, and he grabbed a still-grinning Sideswipe by the shoulders and shook him just like he'd shaken Gears, angrily, but far more gently. "You _stupid idiot_." The tall yellow warrior accented each word with a shake, and Sideswipe winced, but took it gamely. Then without warning Sunstreaker leaned close, took his brother's head in his hands, and pressed his forehead to Sideswipe's just for a moment. And he let out a long sigh.

* * *

So things are back to normal. I hate to think of the day when we finally lose someone for good, but until then all us Autobots are pretty happily set in our roles as part of the dynamic that makes up our Earth unit. You know what I mean. If we lost Prowl, who would even begin to know how to organize us like he does? If we lost Ironhide, we'd never again hear the sound of that soft, musical drawl. And if we lost Sideswipe, well, we'd lose so much of the comedy around here, and along with losing Sideswipe, we'd lose Sunstreaker, and then who'd be around to be nasty? Most 'Bots won't admit it, but along with being secretly just a slight bit afraid of old Sunny's mean nature, we're all pretty damn well grateful for it when we're out on the battlefield. So I guess it's pretty safe to say that on the day we lose someone for good, there will be this wide, dark, unfillable hole in our dynamic, and no one will ever be able to cover it over.

So I'm thinking I'm maybe not so dumb for doing like everyone else does and keeping all that close emotional tie stuff at bay. I don't want to get too close. Not after seeing what I saw today on Sunstreaker's face, and knowing that he hasn't yet been through what I've been through. It really puts a new dimension to Sunny, knowing that a part of him wanted Sideswipe to just go ahead and die, and it makes me almost understand why he's so mean.

Not that he really wanted Siders to die, see. No, I think it's just that Sunny's real tired of waiting for the day that he has to face his brother's death, and for five long days, he thought to himself that the wait might have been over. Oh, sure, Sideswipe's death would have hurt like hell, just like I hurt after seeing my city bombed and burned to rubble. I mean, I wanted to die, just like Sunstreaker was slowly dying as he sat there in the lounge and let his charge gradually bleed away. But somehow, I almost have the feeling that the pain of loss isn't near as bad as the constant torment of loving someone who's still alive, and knowing that you might lose them at any time. I don't mean to sound gushy, and I know if the brothers ever heard me talk about them like this, they'd probably both pound me into a pile of whimpering parts and pieces. But the sheer fact of it is that their love – their absolute _devotion_ – to one another runs deeper and more deadly than any kind of affection I have seen between two beings before in my life. They would die for one another. Listen, I've heard a lot of people talk about how they'd die for this or that person, but when it comes down to it, how many of us mean it? I mean, it's death, people. Listen to what I'm saying to you. It's a great, big, pain-inducing boulder, hurtling with a quickness at your precious, all-in-one-piece body, and you find yourself faced with the decision between your brain's natural instinct to fling your chassis the hell out of death's way, or your resolution to brace and wince, and take death's full-on frontal assault just so some other poor sap can live. Are you frigging kidding me? No way, come heaven or hell, could I choose the big boulder of death, not in a split second like that. I mean, maybe if I had a real good reason, like the salvation of the universe or something, as well as a few years to plan, to get my life in order, and to practice squeezing my optics shut real tight and holding real still. I'd have to practice that bracing and wincing part. But not in a split second. Not like that.

Because, you see, it's not about bravery. We're all brave. I mean, bravery's just doing what you have to in spite of being terrified to do it, so I guess every Autobot I know qualifies as being brave, right? But what Sideswipe did for Sunstreaker was something beyond bravery; it was an act of pure, unselfish love. And that terrifies me. It terrifies me because I'm afraid to ever love someone like that, and it terrifies me on their behalf, because I'm afraid of the day one of them loses the other. But maybe that, in and of itself, is the true definition of bravery. Maybe it's not as big a deal to throw our lives on the line for the Autobot Cause as it is for Sideswipe and Sunstreaker to risk a closeness that none of the rest of us will risk. Maybe real bravery is in loving another soul more than your own life, and letting that soul in closer than your own skin, even when you might lose them to the next battle, the next skirmish, the next day. And maybe that's the true test put to all of us. Because in the end it all comes down to who you've loved in life. Because that _is_ life.

So you see, I can't sleep tonight either. I can hear them down the hall. The twins, that is. I can't really make out what they're saying, but I can tell by the rise and fall of their voices that they're bickering about something, even though Windcharger has yelled twice for them to shut up. I hope they don't. I'd really just like to lay here and listen to them, and know that there are at least two Autobots who aren't afraid of living, despite the shadow of death that hangs over us all every day. In fact, they may be the only two of us who remember what it's like to be really, honestly alive, while the rest of us cower beneath Death's shade, preferring this half-life of never letting anyone get close to us rather than risk a leap into the wild, unpredictable blaze of life. Some say cynicism is practical, but I'm beginning to have the idea that it's just plain cowardice. We're all cowards with one foot firmly planted in the grave, already braced for a death that may not come for years and years. We're not living. Not a one of us.

Except for the brothers. Sideswipe's cackling now about something, and there's Windcharger, yelling and getting madder, and I just wish he'd shut up so I could hear that laugh. It drives the images away. When he laughs like that, I can't see that awful picture I have in my mind of him bracing and wincing, and I can't see the disappointment on Sunstreaker's face. It washes the bad away, listening to them down the hall, alive. It makes me feel that tired kind of good that comes when you wake up from long surgery, and the pain is gone, and you're so pleasantly exhausted. And I feel lucky, though it's a different kind of lucky than I've felt up until now. I feel as though my optics have finally lit up, and I am able, for the first time, to see that we've all been clinging to Death in hopes of avoiding any ugly surprises, and though I'm ashamed of myself and everyone else, there is a kind of comfort in knowing exactly who and where I am. I guess I feel lucky to see this now, instead of in those final moments before I die, when I realize that everything worth living for was exactly what I tried so hard to shove away from me. No, I understand now. Maybe I'm not brave enough yet to get as close to someone as those two maniacs down the hall are to each other. But at least I recognize where I'm trapped by my own fear, and I can at least begin to make plans for finding my way out of the dark.

Again, Sideswipe lets out a loud, diabolical laugh down the hall, and I feel a surge of something I thought I'd long ago forgotten how to feel. Smiling and letting out a long sigh, I close my optics and settle in for the night, as I feel the first quiet touch of hope.

* * *

Author's Note: Yes, another author's note. Observe my big-headedness. ;) Actually, I just wanted to point out the fact that I have removed the notice regarding plagiarism from the beginning of this story, since I want people to enjoy reading this without being smacked in the face with a warning. However, the message still applies: Plagiarism really sucks. So please, don't do it. That is all.


	2. So That He May Have Mercy

This 'fic takes place about five weeks after 'Though I Walk Through The Shadow'. I wanted to give it a shot at Sunstreaker's perspective in life, because I've always seen him as being a really interesting character, who's not necessarily as shallow as his vanity might suggest. If you look at his tech spec and TFU entry, he comes off sounding just one sandwich short of the proverbial picnic, and so I wanted to get inside his mind, and possibly offer an idea on just what goes 'round inside the Sunstreaker Universe. Enjoy.

* * *

Jazz rounded the corner, and felt his apprehension grow palpably. There was absolutely no reason why he should be this disconcerted, or why he shouldn't even be just plain _bored_ by this whole affair, but for some reason it churned his internals just a bit too much for his liking. He listened to the clack of his own feet as he made his way down the corridor toward the Autobots' personal quarters, and he felt a very uncharacteristic desire to step more softly. Or to stop stepping at all. He wished he could pinpoint what bothered him so much about all of this.

Jazz just wasn't normally bothered. Not by anything or anyone. He just had a natural knack for taking in stride everything life tossed at him, and if truth be told, he usually ended up seeing the funny in even the worst of situations. Hell, any situation was funny from a certain point of view, and Jazz just had a talent for finding that point of view and camping out there like a fat and happy Cheshire cat. That was most of the time, anyway. Sometimes, though – and it was a very rare sometimes – a situation would present itself that Jazz just couldn't get past, and couldn't reckon with, no matter how hard he tried. Usually, with things like that, he'd just let it slide, let someone else deal with it, and he'd forget about it. Life was too short to get bent out of shape. True, it'd always be there in the back of his mind, niggling at him, but at least he wouldn't have to get personally involved.

Until now. "Jazz," Prime had told him, "I want you to go talk to Sideswipe. It's come time that we have to find some kind of solution to this, and I know you and Sideswipe get along."

Oh, sure, that part was true. Who didn't get along with Sideswipe? Well, maybe whoever the current victim of his pranks was didn't take old Siders too kindly, but for the most part, the red 'Bot was well-liked. He made Jazz laugh, and in Jazz's estimation, you just couldn't have a better quality than the ability to entertain the Jazzman. Yup. Sideswipe the Entertainer. Sideswipe, King of Grins and Practical Jokes. Siders was good people.

But that didn't mean he was going to talk to Jazz about this particular subject. Nope. Siders was good people, but he could get particularly mean when he had his back up against a wall, which is how he usually seemed to feel when people started getting on his case about Sunstreaker, especially if those people were the higher-ups. Sideswipe was awfully protective about Sunstreaker, and vice-versa, and Jazz just plain didn't want to walk through their door and put himself in the middle of what he knew was going to be a great, big, juiceriffic can of worms.

And that's exactly what it was about to be. Everyone had always given Sunstreaker a bit of a wide berth, but lately it had been wider than usual, and abnormally reinforced by steel and forcefields, largely due to Sunstreaker's incarceration in the brig for his 'creative restyling' of Gears. Gears had always slightly irritated the tall yellow warrior, usually with his mere presence, not to mention his constant, nagging comments about everybody and everything. Most Autobots took Gears with a grain of salt, as the humans would say. But not Sunstreaker. No, good old Sunny, he always gave Gears that ominous, especially-for-Gears stare that said there would come a moment when the number of times Gears had annoyed Sunstreaker would hit that magical jackpot, and result in the Spectacular Savaging of Gears. Gears always shrugged the warning look off. Gears should not have shrugged. Currently, Gears did not have the physical ability to shrug, and Jazz was willing to bet Sunstreaker had gotten his point across, if nothing else.

Unfortunately for Sunstreaker, however, his thoroughly effective beating of Gears had earned him the wrath of Optimus Prime, and a fabulous, all-expenses paid trip to the Hole, which was, as its name suggested, a completely dark cell in the brig that was used for isolation.

"He's lost his damn mind," was Ironhide's comment, after seeing what remained of Gears, and of Ratchet's good graces. It was all the medic could do to stifle his urge to throttle Sunstreaker long enough for him to stabilize Gears, and Jazz had watched with Ironhide and Prime while the medic, all but shaking with rage, slowly pieced the little Autobot back together again.

Optimus let out a sharp, angry sigh. "Whether he's lost his mind or not, he's going to do some time in the Hole, and if he wants to come out alive, he better come out a changed Autobot. This _ends_."

It wasn't like Prime to even joke about killing one of his Autobots. Sure, he'd had times when he'd wanted to beat the internals out of one or two of them, but he never really said it, and he certainly never talked about ending anyone's life. That's how Jazz had known he was serious, and that was why he was so unhappy now to be thrust in the middle of all this. Sure, Sunstreaker's mood had been worse than rotten lately, and his normal unfriendliness had turned to sheer violence, but it wasn't like there was anything Jazz could do about it. Two weeks in the Hole hadn't mellowed him, so what was Jazz going to do? Sideswipe was the only one who could get near him without fear of bodily harm, so why didn't Prime just go straight to Siders himself?

With a sigh, Jazz resigned himself, and came to a stop in front of the twins' quarters. May as well get it over with. He raised his hand to knock, and hesitated. Where was his cool on this one? Come on, Jazzman, he shook himself, trying to keep the sight of the mangled Gears out of his memory banks. It's not like Sunstreaker would attack Jazz like that; nah, Jazz just didn't irritate the yellow warrior, not enough to warrant actual violence. In fact, he suspected Sunstreaker even liked him. But, Ironhide had said that two weeks in the Hole had only served to make Sunstreaker even more volatile, and what if that was all the excuse the warrior needed for attacking Jazz? Sure, Jazz could hold his own long enough to make a wise and hasty exit, but if he got cornered and had to defend himself…well, it was widely known that Sunstreaker never lost a fight alone. For better or worse, Sideswipe backed Sunstreaker. Every time. Which meant that anyone who wasn't a Dinobot thought real hard before getting into it with The Big Yellow.

Jazz just hated this. He wasn't a counselor. He wasn't qualified to deal with Autobot tantrums, and for the hundredth time, he wondered why Prime had sent him instead of Smokescreen or Trailbreaker or someone who was more of a go-to guy when these kinds of personal problems arose. But neither was Jazz afraid, and though he liked to size up a situation as squarely as possible before plunging in, there did come a time when it was now or never. He knocked.

There was no answer. He could hear music thumping from within, and reasoned that they probably couldn't hear him above the din, so he knocked again, louder this time. Still no response. He frowned. Sunstreaker was supposed to be confined to quarters during his probationary period, and if he'd just pumped up the tunes to give the impression of being home before splitting for freedom, Jazz would have a whole different headache on his hands. Reluctantly, he tapped an override code into the wall panel, and the door slid aside.

An assault of Nine Inch Nails pounded him down to his frame, and he grinned despite himself at the feel of the baseline traveling him from foot to cranium. Now this was more like it. Looking around, he took in the very shiny and impressive entertainment center, complete with sound system, DVD player and television. About a year back, the twins had taken it upon themselves to knock a door into the wall separating their quarters, and had turned one room into a sleep/study room, while the other became Entertainment Headquarters. Couches and chairs littered the place, all assembled in a circle of homage around the entertainment center. Often the room was filled with jostling, shouting Autobots as they watched movies or WWF or the lately-discovered NASCAR, but now the room's only occupant was a very sullen-looking Sunstreaker, who sat on one couch, feet on another as he paged through a copy of Auto Trend. The muted television flicked and blared colors to the oblivious Autobot, while the music thumped the walls.

"Sunstreaker!" Jazz yelled, not wanting to startle him by approaching without being heard. "Hey, Sunny!" He wove his way through the couches, trying to get close enough to shout above the noise. "Sunstreaker!"

At last the other Autobot seemed to hear him, and he looked up over the top of his magazine, optics narrowing slowly. Jazz knew he'd be sorely displeased with having the lock to his quarters picked, and he waited for some scathing comment.

He got none. Obviously stewing, but unready to blow just yet, Sunstreaker simply lowered his optics back to his magazine and glowered at the page.

"Hey, Sunny," Jazz tried again, "you doin' alright?"

The yellow Autobot didn't so much as move a micron, and Jazz frowned slightly. A changed Autobot he was not, and Jazz was willing to bet Prime wasn't going to let it slide, either. The Autobot commander was still hot about what Sunstreaker had done, and Sunstreaker didn't seem anywhere near ready to apologize. Mildly bemused, Jazz was beginning to wonder if he was going to see one of those epic beatings he knew Prime was quite capable of handing out. Because Sunstreaker was asking for it.

"Hey, Sunstreaker," Jazz prompted, tempted to shake the yellow Autobot, but thinking better of it, "where's yer partner?"

The merest jerk of Sunstreaker's head indicated that Sideswipe was in the other room, and Jazz lost no time in making his way in that direction. Who knew? Maybe Sideswipe could help sort this out after all. Sunstreaker was certainly no help.

At a touch of its panel, the door to the sleep/study slid open, and Jazz was met with the very unusual sight of Sideswipe poring intently over some type of technical plans, the pages of which were strewn all over the desk and parts of the floor. The red warrior's gaze snapped up, and if Jazz thought he'd be greeted warmly, he found himself to be very mistaken. "Do you not knock?" Sideswipe growled, already scrambling to gather up the loose pages, subspacing them as he touched them, and Jazz grimaced, knowing what a mess they'd be when Sideswipe brought them out of subspace again. "Sunstreaker! SUNSTREAKER!" Sideswipe bellowed, looking uncharacteristically annoyed. When he got no response from his twin, he got up and strode to the door, where he shouted something about keeping people the hell out when he said he didn't want to be bothered. Apparently, Sunstreaker had failed in his duties as sentry.

But whatever scheme Sideswipe was brewing at the moment, Jazz really didn't care, and frankly, he was surprised that Sideswipe would go to such lengths to get angry about being caught. Usually, his plots centered around practical jokes and games and anything that meant Fun For Sideswipe, and as they were usually against regulation, when he got caught he just shrugged and grinned, and submitted himself to whatever his sentence might be. But he didn't get angry. No, he must be stressed over something to get angry, especially at Jazz.

Jazz furrowed his brow as Sideswipe stopped his tirade and slapped the panel to close the door between himself and his brother. The music muffled itself dramatically. "Hey, buddy, you alright?"

Sideswipe turned, his temper already easing, though not completely. Plopping himself into one of the room's two chairs, he gestured at the other. "Yeah, fine. What's up?"

Jazz glanced one last time at the door before seating himself. "Is he ok?" he asked with a nod in Sunstreaker's direction.

"Yeah," Sideswipe shifted his shoulders, stretching as though he'd been hunched over a desk all day. "He's just peachy, in fact. Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens and all that." He grinned, though he looked a little tired behind his optics. "So what brings you by?"

Jazz returned the smile. "Well, much as I'd like to blow sunshine up your tailpipe about this being a social call, I guess I'll just get to the point." He sat back, one arm on the table, and tapped the tabletop with his fingers, wishing he knew some magically peaceful way to open this particular can of worms, but he knew there wasn't. He also knew that Sideswipe was fully aware of why Jazz was there, and that the only really good way to deal with Siders was straight on. It was the same with all the warrior types. They had no taste for all the dancing around that came with politics or negotiating or just plain talking about something unpleasant. It was best just to meet these types head on with what you had to say, or they'd just turn even uglier when they got bored with having their intelligence insulted. The warrior class was always smarter than people suspected. "Well," Jazz blurted, "to be honest, I'm – we're – starting to worry about Sunstreaker." No use pretending with the 'I' thing. Sideswipe knew Jazz wasn't here on his own.

The red warrior stared at him blankly. "And?" he said, when it was apparent that Jazz was waiting for a response. "What do you want me to do about it?"

"Well," Jazz explained, glancing down at his fingers, which were busily drumming the table, "we kinda hoped you could help us. Maybe explain to us what's going on with him. I know he gets a bit frazzled sometimes, but lately he…" He trailed off, knowing he'd blown it before he'd even gotten started.

Sideswipe was sitting with his arms crossed, face gone blank the way it always did when he was done with a conversation. And that usually happened pretty quickly when the conversation was about his brother. Jazz knew from long years of experience that no amount of cajoling or pleading or threatening could budge the red warrior into offering up anything useful when he got to this point. From here on, it would be all grunts and monosyllables.

"Oh, come on," Jazz said despite himself, and leaned forward over the table. "You and I are friends, aren't we?" Sideswipe nodded his assent. "Well, that's why Prime sent me. It's not like he's trying to get dirt on either of you. He just wants to help, and so do I."

Sideswipe only stared in reply, choosing to remain fanatically stubborn where Sunstreaker was concerned. Never turn on your brother. That was rule number one with them. Sometimes Jazz wondered what would happen if their loyalty to each other ever came into competition with their loyalty to the Autobots, and he secretly suspected that the Autobots would lose. "Look," Sideswipe said, surprising Jazz with an actual string of words, "if you're here asking me to rat out Sunny, then you may as well trot on back to Prime and tell him he's out of luck."

"Actually," Jazz said, modifying the truth somewhat, since he certainly wasn't getting anywhere on his own, "Prime sent me down here to ask if you'd come talk to him directly."

"Then why didn't he just ask me directly?" Sideswipe asked, bristling a bit, and Jazz regretted his fabrication. Sure, Prime had ordered him to bring Sideswipe back after Jazz had finished talking to him, but the way Jazz had put it now suggested that Prime had sent an escort down for the red Autobot.

"Hey, Siders, don't get mad at me." Jazz held his hands up in a placating gesture. "He just wanted me to talk to you first, to see if maybe you'd be more comfortable just talking to me. We're just trying to help."

"By dragging me into something I have nothing to do with," Sideswipe came back, and Jazz knew he was right. How often had Sideswipe been hauled in to sort out some mess with Sunstreaker, and ended up on the defense whether he wanted to be there or not? Often, he found himself sharing whatever punishment was set for Sunstreaker, simply because he'd end up feeling compelled to take Sunstreaker's side, and would ultimately find himself swept up in some argument or scuffle that he had nothing to do with in the first place.

"Hey, man," Jazz said. "Trying to help, remember?"

"Yeah, whatever." Sideswipe rose, smirking humorlessly. "And Sunstreaker's just a big, hug-able banana-car of love."

* * *

Sunstreaker watched them go out of the corner of his optics. He knew where they were going, and he resented Sideswipe for going so meekly. He didn't blame him, really, knowing that if he didn't go of his own volition, he'd be given a direct order, and failing that, would be physically dragged. They just loved hammering Sideswipe when his other half had everyone worked into a slather. No matter how many times Sideswipe shut them down, the command element still thought of him as the Autobots' last defense against Sunstreaker's outbursts of personal expression. Poor Sideswipe.

Sunstreaker smiled to himself, and turned the page. Served him right for submitting to Prime so easily.

Prime. Sunstreaker had been waiting to hear from the Autobot commander himself for two weeks now, and was a little surprised he hadn't made an appearance yet, since Prime seemed to always feel obligated to stick his nose into Sunstreaker's face at times like this. Not that it bothered Sunstreaker either way. Prime could show or not show, and Sunstreaker would tune him out neatly. The Autobot commander could work up some really terrific fits of temper, and it was always a little interesting to Sunstreaker to watch the commander try to suppress it. The sky-blue of his optics would darken to a menacing indigo, and Prime's whole face would stiffen and contort with effort to control his rage, and often Sunstreaker would find himself paying more attention to the impressive display of control going on before him and would lose track of what the commander was actually saying to him. Not that he was really engrossed in Prime's words in the first place. All it took was Sunstreaker's mild interest in the sight of Prime's face distorting itself, and the yellow warrior would forget entirely that he was supposed to at least pretend to be paying attention. Which naturally brought on even more face contortions as Prime realized he was being tuned out, and eventually the whole affair would end with Sunstreaker being tossed into the brig, or restricted to quarters, or put out on some assignment where Prime wouldn't have to see him for at least few days.

Which suited Sunstreaker just fine. Sideswipe usually came with him anyway, so it wasn't like he ever really suffered at being ejected from the Ark, or even shoved off into the brig. Good old Sideswipe. More than half the trouble Sunstreaker got into, Sideswipe was right beside him, and he usually ended up sharing Sunstreaker's fate, even if he hadn't been a part of whatever Sunstreaker's crimes were to begin with.

But he hadn't come this time. Sunstreaker frowned. No, this time, Sunstreaker had been dealt with too quickly, and he'd been thrown into the Hole where Sideswipe couldn't even pay a visit to point and laugh. No, this time he'd been completely alone.

A deep, cold sensation stole over Sunstreaker and he turned up the music and even turned the on the TV's sound so a jumble of noise battered at him while he furiously turned the page.

For a long time he sat like that, page-turning and glaring at the television and rummaging around the room for more magazines before plopping back down again with a stack of back issues and glaring and turning until he finally found he'd ripped most of his magazines to shreds. He didn't like this. He didn't like the vaguely desperate feeling that crawled through his circuits and scratched itself across his mind like some kind of filthy parasite. Getting up so quickly he overturned the couch, Sunstreaker began to stalk back and forth around the room while simultaneous noise from the television and stereo pounded into him. Where was Sideswipe, anyway? Probably off blathering to Prime all kinds of personal information about Sunstreaker. Bloody suck-up, leaving Sunstreaker like this to go sidle up to the command element. He could be such a frigging pet. Storming about the room, knocking furniture aside and shuffling up flurries of magazine shreds, Sunstreaker busied himself with formulating just what he'd say to the little rat when he got back. If he got back before he had to go on duty. Which would put him gone another eight hours at least, more if there was something important to do. Sunstreaker stopped, optics gone pale as he calculated just exactly how many hours Sideswipe would potentially be away. Days? Weeks? Longer?

Quickly, Sunstreaker strode to the entertainment center and cut everything off. He stood, unnerved by the silence, unnerved by the sheer fact of being unnerved, and was overwhelmingly tempted to radio Sideswipe and ask him something, anything, just to put Sunstreaker's mind to rights. Instead, he forced himself to calm down, and lowered his head, optics closed, as he felt for that tentative connection at the back of his mind. Ok. There. He eased a bit. There it was. It was so faint that for years he thought it was his imagination, but it was there, the constant feel of his brother's presence, somewhere, alive at least. Sunstreaker let out a long, hissing sigh.

The Hole had not been good to him.

Angrily, he sat down on one of the couches and summoned a soft cloth out of subspace, which he began to work in small circles over his chestplate. The silence hung thick around him now, but he tuned it out as he bent over his armor, scowling and scrubbing intently. He'd been such a mess when they'd brought him out, a mass of scratches and dents from stumbling about in the dark. All ability to produce light had been taken from him; headlights, dome light, running lights had all been switched off, as well as his weapon systems, and his ability to transform or pull anything out of subspace. Only his optics were left to throw a pale, weak light as he sat propped up in the corner at the bottom of the dark shaft. He had worried incessantly about his bodywork, wondering just how long it would take him to get all the dings out when he emerged from his sentence, and how long it would be until he was off restrictions so he could go find a decent body shop. Because Primus knew Ratchet wasn't going to work on him, not for a while anyway. The medic, he was sure, was pretty frothed up by now.

But then his sentence dragged on, and he began to worry less about the shape his finish was in. Of course he worried. Just not as much. Several times he checked his internal clock, which seemed bizarrely out of sync with reality, and he began to wonder if he'd need that system looked at as well, when he got out. It just didn't seem like it was telling the right time. He'd been thrown into this black place on a Wednesday, he was sure, and now his internal clock was saying it was sometime Thursday evening, and he knew that just couldn't be true. Unless a whole week had passed. But it didn't seem like that. He knew for certain he'd been down here for days, and not just one. But it couldn't have been a week. Not yet.

Eventually it really began to bother him, this trouble with what time it was. In fact, it bothered him so much that he really began to obsess about it, running endless systems diagnostics and tests, trying to determine just where his internal clocking system had gone so wrong. It irritated him completely. He wanted to shout up at the trap door, and demand to know what time it was so he could reset his damn clock and just get it all over with, but he was still too proud for that. He'd never been one to ask for help before, and he certainly wasn't going to start asking for it now. Let them just go ahead and wonder about him. They'd probably messed with his clock on purpose, just to see if they could drive him crazy enough to make him start shouting like a lunatic. Most likely, they even had a bet going up there, to see how long he'd last before he started banging the walls. But Sunstreaker just wasn't having it. He wasn't about to ask for mercy from them. Let 'em rot. If they wanted to know about his level of crazy, they'd just have to open the trap door and see for themselves.

He waited. Seconds ticked obediently by on his internal readout, and he stared inwardly at the slowly marching numbers as they flicked by in unfeeling, businesslike succession. Bastards. The numbers on his readout never faltered, never hesitated, and Sunstreaker began to think that they were just waiting for him to look away so they could go on the fritz again. Like tiny, diabolical creatures, the numbers waited, grinning and knowing that at some point, he would simply have to blink. But he wasn't going to blink. Because he knew he wasn't flipped. He knew those numbers were out of order somehow, that they would take a misstep, if only he were patient and kept staring.

He fell asleep like that, or thought he did. The barrier between his online and shut-down states had grown fuzzy in the dark, and so even after he got out of the Hole, he still couldn't be sure if the sensation that suddenly sprang on him had come to him as some sort of gliched-up internal feedback, or as what the humans would call a dream. Transformers dreamed, Sunstreaker supposed, if you counted the occasional mental activity that occurred during shut-down. He wasn't sure if it was the same kind of activity that humans experienced, but he suspected it was. It had been a long time since he'd experienced 'dreaming' himself, and he found that it was nothing short of disconcerting.

What he first remembered seeing was the shapes that the numbers on his internal clock made. Green and pale as lichen, they flicked in a never-ending shift of lines and spaces that Sunstreaker began to find soothing. They might be trying to trick him, those numbers, but at least they were pleasing to look at. He liked shapes. He liked clean-lined, exactingly constructed things that incorporated that perfect combination of angles and weight and proportion that all comprised the formula for the ultimate expression of art. Like his own body. How relieved and even grateful he was that the Ark had chosen such a form for him, because anything else would have caused him to _itch_. In his sleep, he shuddered. To be misshapen, unbalanced, or even just…ugly…would have been a sentence too difficult to bear. He abhorred such things, and to be faced with revulsion at his own image was something he simply did not know how to reckon with. Because he had always been this perfect composite of shape and line, and there was something about being so that made him feel complete.

There was completeness in beauty, and peace in the unmarred reflection of his finish. Like the numbers, so clean and methodical, he himself was a work of perfection, his body as perfectly formed and tuned to its task, his shape as artfully wrought as the face of a clock.

He saw his face in Sideswipe's pockmarked finish the day that Sideswipe nearly died. He remembered being confused. He remembered staring at the chipped paint on his brother's chestplate, which had been peppered down to primer with flying rock and debris, and he remembered thinking that ugliness was always the beginning of pain. He did not like pain. He did not like having to be reminded that pain always existed, just there, under the thin veneer of beauty that he wore and polished and wielded as a shield between the two sides of him. He did not like the fact that Sideswipe's finish was so scarred, or that an enormous chunk of rock was slicing through the air toward where Sunstreaker was pinned, and where Sideswipe was trying to dig him out. Sideswipe should have jumped out of the way. Sunstreaker did not like that he didn't jump.

His dream lurched, throwing new shapes at him. He saw the shape of a leaf, curling brown with autumnal death, and he thought that there was nothing on Cyberton that could have looked so hideously out of alignment with everything good in the universe. Except that there was. Even the crumbly, irregular, sloppy ugliness of Earth couldn't match an eons-long Cybertronian war. What was it about war that bothered Sunstreaker? He studied the whirl of images that paraded by his dreamer's optics, and wondered what could be so awful that would create in him such a horrific reaction to ugliness. A Decepticon's left optic shattered into an intricate web of fissures as Sunstreaker slammed his head against the ground; the stench and heat of a smelting pool scorched and bubbled his paint; an unmarked Transformer lay gurgling and retching in his own fluids, feebly kicking a mangled leg. All of these were sights and smells he had been subject to for years upon years. He had even been a contributor to all the ugliness, and he'd relished the feel of his thumbs across the thin, metal skin of an enemy's throat just before he'd torn the life out of one more Decepticon. None of it bothered him. War didn't bother him. In fact, he was very good at making war; he was calm, ruthless, and unflinching. So what was it about all the ugliness that left him feeling so very, very bothered?

In the dark, he awoke, and wondered where the line was between what was dream and what was real. Instantly he checked his internal clock, and cursed at the numbers on the readout as he saw them say another several days had gone by, when he was sure he'd only been asleep for a few hours. He got up and stared at the trapdoor above, clenching and unclenching his fists, sure that someone had crept down here and messed with him while he'd been offline. Bastards and sons of filth. It wasn't enough that they'd locked him down here in the dark, with no one to talk to. No, they had to torment him as well. Sure, they acted all noble and good when it came to Sunstreaker handing out a little lesson to Gears, but then they turned around and inflicted their own brand of anger on Sunstreaker in the form of this slow, lightless, mind-numbing _torture_. Could they not at least tell him what Primus-forsaken, friggin' _time_ it was?

He lashed out, and bit off a yelp of pain as his fist came in contact with something solid. Cursing, he kicked, and snarled in enraged pain when he realized that the wall was probably not going to give in to his temper. Slowly, shaking with frustration, he backed up against the wall, and slid down to sit again. Checking his clock, he saw that he'd been awake for approximately three minutes, and twenty-one and two tenths of a second.

For a long, long time he stared at that clock. After a few hours he got up again, too angry to sit anymore, and tried to work the stiffness out of his poor body. Frowning, he ran his fingers lightly over his finish, trying to discern where the worst scratches were, and he even held a forearm up close to his optics, but their light was just too weak, and he couldn't see a thing. So he began to pace. One hand tracing the wall so as not to bump into it again, Sunstreaker paced back and forth around the small shaft. He went quickly at first, stalking about to burn the edges off of his extreme irritation, but then this crawling feeling started scratching at the back of his neck, and he slowed, and listened.

He could hear nothing. There was no sound from above the trap door, and no sound from below the floor. Tilting his head, he made himself as still as possible and turned his audios to maximum range. But still, there was nothing, and it was several long minutes before he realized that what he was trying so hard to detect was not outside after all, but had been inside the Hole with him all along.

His body gone suddenly cold, Sunstreaker pressed himself against the wall, and looked at Nothing.

He began to shake. Just a hum at first in the pit of him, and then a trembling that spread like a virus through his systems, his whole body rattled against the wall in unreasonable horror at what had suddenly presented itself to him. Mouth agape, he began to hear a guttural rasp that turned quickly into a low, wretched keen, and he found himself wondering for a moment what could possibly be making such an irritating noise when he realized at once that it was him. Very slowly, by degrees, he sank down against the wall to sit on his heels in a huddled ball, where he held up his hands before him in the only defensive gesture he knew to use against the advancing desolation before him, and whether he closed his optics or not it didn't matter. Because at once all the ugliness in his mind was clicking in place, and he was finally beginning to understand.

He stared into the dark and he saw that he was completely, utterly alone.

They found him sitting like that when they finally opened the trap door above. The bar of light startled him so completely that he lurched to his feet in a panic, then immediately crumpled as his too-stiff legs wouldn't support him. "Come on," he heard a voice drawl quietly, the sound startling him as much as the light, and he jumped again.

"Come on," Ironhide's voice insisted, and Sunstreaker's reality began to right itself again as he felt Ironhide clamp him under the arms and lift him out of the Hole. "You awright?"

Sunstreaker swayed and squinted in the bright light of the brig. Trailbreaker and Brawn stood nearby, while Ironhide closed the trapdoor behind him. "Hey," Trailbreaker prodded. "Streaker. Say something."

This all felt irritatingly familiar. "Heh," came Brawn's chuckle from nearby. "I think he's fried a circuit board or two." Some fingers waggled themselves in front of Sunstreaker's optics. "Hey, Streaks, how many am I holding up?"

Savagely, Sunstreaker tried to smack Brawn's hand away, but he found his coordination was off, and he batted at air.

"Yup," came Ironhide's voice from somewhere behind him. "Same old Sunstreaker. Hole ain't done him no good."

"Shut up," Sunstreaker finally managed, his voice sounding strangely hollow. He swayed, and Ironhide put out a hand just in time to catch him from falling. "Just shut up, and tell me what friggin' time it is."

At that, everyone laughed, as though Sunstreaker had said something funny. Someone gave him a good-natured slap on the back, making his knees buckle, and Sunstreaker found himself being mostly-carried, partially-dragged between Trailbreaker and Ironhide. "Yup, good old Sunstreaker," Ironhide was saying. "Better get him to the recharge station before his smart mouth drains his last energon reserves. Come on, fellas."

So Sunstreaker was dragged to the nearest recharger, and then deposited unceremoniously into his chambers, where he was given orders that he was being restricted to quarters until further notice. Several hours went by before he saw anybody, and by the time that grinning idiot Sideswipe got back from being on duty, Sunstreaker had found a way to comfortably forget whatever had bothered him so much in the Hole.

Now he sat on his couch, scrubbing intently and wishing he could get off of restriction for long enough to go get a good detailing, or at least just a decent steam bath. What was the point of locking him up here, anyway? It's not like Gears was dead, so why didn't Prime just have his little lecture and leave Sunstreaker alone? Hissing and scowling afresh, Sunstreaker leaned over and attacked his shin guards, determined that if he had to endure all of this unfair treatment, he would at least be presentable while doing it. He wouldn't be perfect, but he would make the best of his current condition. And that gave him some measure of comfort.

That, and knowing what time it was.

* * *

Optimus Prime was sitting quietly at his desk when Prowl ushered Jazz and Sideswipe in. Looking perplexed over something, the Autobot commander stared down at the glow of his computer screen for several long moments before acknowledging his visitors.

"Have a seat, all of you," he said at length, and looked up. Absently, he switched off his monitor, probably so as not to be distracted, and leaned back in his chair to gaze thoughtfully at the three Autobots before him.

Three chairs were pulled up before Prime's desk, and all three Autobots sat, Sideswipe in the middle at Prowl's insistence. Glumly, the red Autobot hunkered down and visibly prepared for the worst.

"I hate to ask you here when you're off-duty," Prime finally said to Sideswipe. "Thank you for coming."

"Oh, anytime," Sideswipe managed dryly. Mentally, Jazz smiled. Siders might be tired, but it seemed if he had to go down, he intended to go down slinging liberal amounts of sarcasm.

Prime ignored Sideswipe's wry tone. "Undoubtedly, Jazz has told you why you're here."

Sideswipe regarded the commander flatly. "To save the universe once more from the Great, Wicked Daffodil of Death?"

Prime returned Sideswipe's flat look. "I don't find the situation to be funny, Sideswipe."

"Well yeah," Sideswipe replied, "the 'funny' in these situations always eludes me, too. Especially during that part where you throw me in the brig along with old Sunshine. Wait," he sat up, optics bright, "I have an idea. Why don't you just skip the whole Make Sideswipe Miserable part, and just go to throwing me in the brig? That would save us all some time."

"Sideswipe," Optimus began, with an edge of exasperation, but was cut off by Prowl's smooth voice.

"No one is going to put you in the brig," the tactician said quietly, his cool optics seeming to stare right through Sideswipe and into Jazz. Prowl was always like that, seeming to look into things and not just at them.

Either his voice or his reputation for always telling the truth seemed to have some kind of calming effect on Sideswipe, who relaxed and slumped back down in his chair. Either he was being insolent by sitting that way, Jazz thought suddenly, or he was really, really tired. Frowning, Jazz looked on while Optimus cleared his throat.

"Let's start over. First of all, how is Sunstreaker?"

"Annoyed." Sideswipe looked as though he felt the same.

"He's been out of isolation for, what, two days now?"

Sideswipe nodded.

Optimus tipped his head. "And, in your opinion, has he changed his views at all since his incarceration?"

At that, Sideswipe threw his head back and laughed, startling everyone in the room. Arms dangling over the arms of his chair, Sideswipe chuckled for a good, long moment before turning a greatly amused look back toward Optimus Prime. Optics crinkling at the corners, the red Autobot tossed the commander a roguish grin. "His views on what, exactly?"

Optimus leaned forward, folding his hands on his desk. "Again, Sideswipe, I'm not sure why you feel this is so funny."

"Hoo!" Sideswipe laughed again, rolling his optics skyward. "Zero to ludicrous speed in no time flat!" He sat up, slapped a thigh as he giggled over his new joke, and Jazz had to suppress a grin of his own as he understood completely what Sideswipe was saying, though unsure why he was acting out on his frustration so openly. Sure, he'd been dragged in zillions of times to be questioned and even nagged at about Sunstreaker, a habit that had long ago begun to exasperate the red warrior, but he was usually just a tad bit more cooperative. Or at least more respectful. Matter of fact, most of the time Sideswipe held Optimus Prime in such high regard that he would jump to do whatever the Autobot commander asked of him, so it was either a measure of his frustration that he was acting with such disrespect, or it was a sign that he was unusually bothered about something. Now the red warrior sat back, or at least tried to, though his body seemed to slide back down into a slouch of its own accord.

Jazz exchanged glances with Prowl, whose face was unreadable as ever.

Optimus sighed, and again Prowl stepped in. "I believe," the tactician explained quietly, "that Optimus was referring to Sunstreaker's views on his violent outbursts. He wonders if Sunstreaker has formed a new outlook on his own behavior."

Once again, Sideswipe responded better to Prowl than to Optimus. Perhaps he felt less threatened by Prowl, or maybe it was just that he liked Prowl on a more personal level. Sideswipe knew he could get under Prowl's skin and either irritate him completely or bring out that elusive laugh of his, and it made him like the tactician in spite of their vast differences. "To be honest," Sideswipe replied, after a moment of consideration, "I haven't asked him."

"But in your opinion," Optimus pressed, "do you think he's changed?"

"In my opinion?" Sideswipe asked. "Why do you want my opinion? You'd get a lot further just asking him yourself."

"Hey, Siders," Jazz cut in, before the conversation turned into a sniping contest between the commander and the red warrior, "you know why we're asking. We need your help on this, 'cause you know Sunny isn't about to give us any honest answers. You, on the other hand, are the one thing we've ever seen him honestly respond to. Which means you're the man of the hour when it comes to Streaker problems. Sorry, dude, but that's the way it is."

"And what happens," Sideswipe asked, completely straight-faced, "when I'm gone, and you have nobody to play interference for you? What then?"

"Exactly," was Prowl's reply, and Sideswipe turned him a puzzled look. The tactician eyed him calmly. "In my estimation, it has been since the time of your near-demise five weeks ago that Sunstreaker has become even more irritable than normal, not to mention more violent. I see a correlation. Do you?"

Sideswipe frowned, his optics gone a little narrow at Prowl's blunt assessment as he paused to formulate a response. Jazz watched him turning the question over in his head, and Jazz knew that Siders was trying to figure the best way out of giving away any unnecessary information. He was always like this where Sunstreaker was concerned, tight-lipped and closely guarded. At last, he decided to go with ambiguity. "Maybe," he said, and Jazz suppressed a smile. Good choice. Ambiguity always left Prowl just a little discombobulated.

"Sideswipe," Optimus spoke up, "I trust you see that this is a very serious situation. The way we see it, your brother has been upset by your near-death five weeks past, which is understandable. But what is not forgivable is his method of releasing his anger on Gears, who right now is still undergoing reconstruction in medical. And that is something I cannot allow to happen again, no matter how useful Sunstreaker is as a warrior. I simply cannot unleash him on the Decepticons if that means I have to unleash him on the Autobots as well. Surely you understand that something has to be done, and I would prefer to do that with your help."

"What do you mean, 'something has to be done'?" Sideswipe had grown still in his chair, his fingers curled around the edges of his armrest, and Jazz knew if Siders had felt defensive before, now he felt outright threatened. Prime probably shouldn't have put it like that. Sure, Siders was loyal, and so was Sunny, but what Prime didn't understand was that Sideswipe wouldn't just lay down while something happened to Sunstreaker, not even if the yellow warrior deserved it.

"What I mean," Optimus explained, "is that I have to find some way to prevent this kind of thing from ever happening again."

"So teach Gears to keep his mouth shut," Sideswipe interrupted.

Prime's optics widened. "Are you saying you feel that incident was Gears' fault?"

Sideswipe shifted in his chair, his sense of morality at war with his sense of loyalty. "Well, it's not like Gears didn't provoke Sunstreaker. You can't tell me that little jerk didn't push Sunny's buttons to see if he could get him to explode. Sorry if it worked."

It was true. Gears had antagonized Sunstreaker to the brink of sanity that day, and he'd been enjoying himself right up the point where Sunstreaker ambushed him. Yup, good old Sunny. Didn't let himself just instantly react to being baited that time. If he had, maybe the other 'Bots would have understood more. But no. Instead, he'd waited until Gears was alone, so there would be no one around to pull Sunstreaker off of him until the yellow warrior had methodically ripped the little Autobot's chassis completely apart. Jazz doubted Gears would ever bait Sunstreaker again without thinking real long and hard about it.

"So yeah," Sideswipe was saying, "Gears should have known better. You don't see anyone going around sticking their hand in Slag's mouth and then antagonizing him. And you certainly wouldn't put Slag in the brig after he torched the idiot who did that. Yeah," Sideswipe said, optics narrowed nearly to slits and looking exactly as Sunstreaker did when he locked onto something he didn't like, "you all sure appreciate Sunny's temper out on the battlefield, but when he comes back to the Ark, you suddenly want him to be all fluffy and nice. Well, he's not fluffy, and he's not nice, and I think anyone who pushes his buttons ought to just take what they get and like it."

Optimus' faceplate had darkened while Sideswipe was speaking, and though Jazz thought he detected a hint of doubt in the commander's optics, Prime wasn't about to show it. He narrowed his optics. "Look, Sideswipe –"

"No, you look." Sideswipe stood, and put his hands on Prime's desk, leaning forward to put his optics level with the commander's. "Every time Sunstreaker does something you don't like, you call me in here, expecting me to spill my guts like some little rat bastard, and I'm just not having it. You want to talk to Sunstreaker, then you do it yourself. But keep in mind one thing. You signed us into this unit because of what we are. You _pay_ us to be violent. It's our job. So every time you put us in the vanguard, every time you send us out, face first into Megatron's fusion cannon, you just remember that when you get us home to the Ark, you can't just expect us to turn into Hound or Beachcomber. And you should damn well appreciate that, because I don't see you catapulting them into the really dangerous shit, do you, Prime? No. You don't. That's what we're for. And I think you ought to keep that in mind the next time you point that righteous finger of yours in our direction."

At that, he stood, but whatever response Prime had was cut off by Sideswipe as he staggered back a step and nearly crashed to the ground. Awkwardly, he caught himself between his chair's armrest and Prowl's, and steadied himself to stand again. "Sideswipe?" came Prime's voice, all trace of anger erased by concern. "Are you alright?"

Shaking his head, Sideswipe straightened to stand with all the pride he could muster. It wasn't much. "Yeah," he scrubbed a hand over his face, which reflected such weariness that Jazz wondered why none of them had noticed how tired the red warrior really was.

Prime tilted his head. "When was your last diagnostic?"

"Week ago," Sideswipe answered, looking for all the world as though he were a puff of wind away from falling over. His anger had vanished, replaced by a dizzy kind of confusion. "I have one tomorrow. Ratchet has me coming once a week." Standard procedure. Get smeared by a giant boulder, and you got stuck with weekly visits to Ratchet to see how repairs were progressing.

"When do you go on duty again?" Prime asked.

Sideswipe paused a fraction of a second, face blank as he checked his internal clock. "Twenty minutes."

"Fine," Prime nodded. "I want you to go to medical before then. In fact, go now."

"But," Sideswipe couldn't help but take a jab, "you couldn't possibly be done with me. You haven't gotten to the part with all the anger and the finger pointing yet." He offered a weak, bitter grin, determined to be surly no matter how awful he may have felt physically.

"Sideswipe," Prime said quietly, voice edged with warning, "go down to medical right now. And take Jazz with you."

Jazz started to rise, but Sideswipe shrugged him off, backing unsteadily toward the door. "I don't need a nursemaid," he said, and turned, head held high despite his slightly wobbly gait as he made his way toward the door. It slid open with a hiss, but he failed to disappear as Jazz had thought he would. Instead, he paused, one hand on the door frame, though whether he was considering something or just plain dizzy, Jazz couldn't tell. At length he turned, and for the first time during that whole discussion, he offered Prime a look that bordered on trust. "If you really want to help Sunstreaker, and not just punish him," he began, then paused, as though weighing the consequences of divulging what he was about to say against any faith he might have in Optimus Prime. Trust won over, and he finished his sentence. "Then don't put him in the Hole again. Ever." With that, he withdrew, letting the door slide shut behind him as he vanished down the corridor.

* * *

Jazz, Prime and Prowl all regarded one another for a long moment before anyone spoke, but at last Prime broke the silence with a short sigh. "Well," he said wryly, "that went well."

Jazz chuckled lightly. "So, I guess we can cross old Swiper off the Helpful List. Looks like we tackle this one on our own."

Prime sat back, optics on the door as he took a moment to think. "I would have preferred to have his help," the commander said thoughtfully. "Because frankly, other than shutting Sunstreaker down indefinitely, I don't see a way to resolve this without someone else getting hurt. Gears nearly died, and I cannot allow that to happen again."

Frowning, Jazz sat up in his chair. "Surely you don't mean that." He couldn't mean that. Prime just didn't talk like this.

"Well," the commander replied, nonplussed, "what are your suggestions? I don't see what else to do, if I don't want this to happen again. Sunstreaker has become a liability."

"Well, he's just not usually like this," Jazz responded, finding himself just a little bothered that the situation had come to this. "I mean, Streaks has never been very nice, and he's been part of infighting before, but not like this. Which means something's gotta be bothering him, and if we could get to the bottom of it…" He shrugged, "Can't say I know how, but we can try something, can't we?"

"Like what, shock therapy?" Prime came back, only half-sarcastic.

"Prime," Jazz admonished, "you just can't talk about shutting him down. I mean, look at the Dinobots. We thought we'd have to deactivate them, and look how they turned out. And hell, there's five of them, and only one Sunstreaker."

"One Sunstreaker is one too many," Prime grumbled, and it dawned on Jazz that the Autobot commander was more than just really irritated; he was deeply, angrily offended, and that was an emotion he usually reserved for the Decepticons. "Taking life, needlessly harming another, is not the Autobot way, and I don't know that Sunstreaker will ever understand that."

Jazz had no reply to that. What Prime said was true, and Jazz just couldn't argue. A sinking kind of dread spread through him as he started to see Sunstreaker as Prime saw him; a cold, merciless creature of violence who simply had no concept of how anyone felt beyond himself. He was not a team player, and in fact could barely be persuaded to remember that he was part of a team at all. How many times had Jazz seen him overextend himself in his lust for a fight, only to get other Autobots injured in their attempts to save him from his own foolishness? How many times had he seen him continue to inflict injury long after it was warranted, and how many times had Jazz seen that cold, cruel smile that Sunstreaker always wore when he finally had someone up against the wall, and was about to deliver the final blow? He didn't waste time in battle. He was quick, efficient, and unhindered by mercy. Which was why he was so good.

He wasn't like the other Autobots; that much was true. Jazz met Prime's gaze, and he just had nothing to say, because he knew that Prime was right. Prime closed his optics for a moment, looking a bit tired himself, before opening them to regard his tactician. "Well, Prowl," he asked, "what's your opinion in this?"

But the tactician was staring into space in his contemplative way that suggested he was still wading through the problem, and had not yet come to any conclusions. Slowly, as though floating back toward the present, he focused his optics on Optimus Prime and asked, "When will you hold council?"

The Autobot commander shook his head and sighed. "Tomorrow morning most likely. Not today. I want to be fair and approach this rationally, but," his optics darkened a bit, "I don't think I can do that just yet."

"Understood," Prowl nodded, and rose.

"I would like to hear your thoughts on this," Prime said to his tactician, not ready yet to dismiss him.

Bland as ever, Prowl gazed down at his commander. "If I had any to give, I would, but I have no solution yet. I have to think on this. I would, however, request to be present at Sunstreaker's council."

"Granted," Prime nodded, metal brow raised. "Though I'm surprised that you would want to be present for such an impossible situation."

"Impossible?" Now Prowl raised his brow, and Jazz thought he detected the barest hint of a smile as the tactician caught scent of a challenge. "Nothing, sir, is impossible, and all problems have their cause, and therein their solution."

Prime leaned forward, humor tugging at his features. "You're telling me that you can deduce what caused Sunstreaker?"

"Naturally," Prowl quipped back, face straight as ever. "He is the great affliction we must endure for wrongs done in our past lives."

"Either that," Jazz added, "or he's somebody's idea of a really cruel joke to play on poor Sideswipe."

Prime chuckled at that, and Jazz grinned as some of the tension eased out of the room. "Alright, alright," Prime straightened. "Prowl, you're excused until council tomorrow morning. I want you to be there, too, Jazz. Oh, and Jazz, go follow Sideswipe and see that he doesn't fall on his face somewhere on his way to medical."

"On my way," Jazz saluted merrily as he rose, and turned to follow Prowl out of the office, but not before looking back to see Prime's face re-etch itself with lines of worry. Jazz hurried out into the hall, and for the hundredth time that day, was glad that his name wasn't Sunstreaker.

* * *

Jazz caught up with Sideswipe sooner than he'd expected, and now he shadowed him as the red warrior made his slow way toward medical, trailing a hand against the wall from time to time for balance. It seemed he was definitely in a bad way. Frowning, Jazz wondered whether he should catch up and admit he'd been sent along as a nursemaid, since it seemed that Sideswipe might actually need one, or just follow quietly behind Sideswipe and hope the red warrior didn't hear him.

Sideswipe stopped and turned. So much for guesswork. Jazz offered a guilty grin. Ah well. Medical was a long way off, anyway. Better to have someone to talk to. "Hey, man," Jazz held up his hands, "just following orders."

Sideswipe answered with a smirk that slid into a small, lopsided grin of his own. "You just can't get enough of me today, can you? Admit it," he said, turning to make his way slowly down the corridor again, "you're stalking me because of my good looks."

"You're right," Jazz replied, "I'm obsessed with you. Who could resist? I swoon at the sight of your handsome face."

Sideswipe uttered a mock sigh. "I get that a lot."

Jazz chuckled. "You do the Sunstreaker thing well."

"Hmph," Sideswipe glared, though his mouth twitched with a fond half-smile. "Try living with the bastard for about a zillion years, and you see how good you get at imitating him."

"No thanks," Jazz grinned, and fell in step with the other Autobot. "So…you sure you're feeling ok?"

Sideswipe shrugged, his gait still a bit wobbly. "I guess. I'll find out when Ratchet gets done yelling at me. He always starts my diagnostics with a good yelling. Seems to think it's good for me somehow."

"Uh," Jazz put in, "could it be because you're his biggest repeat customer?"

Again Sideswipe offered a shrug, and accompanied it with a weak grin. "I aim to delight."

They walked a bit in silence, Jazz shortening his stride to keep even with red warrior. Sideswipe was taller by a head, and usually Jazz had to quicken his pace to keep up with the energetic Autobot, so it was strange now to see him move so slowly. He hoped Siders was alright. "Hey," he said after a stretch, "what was that about not putting Streaker into the Hole?"

Sideswipe eyed him sideways. "I meant just what I said. You wanna help him? Don't put him in there."

"Why?" Jazz asked, curiosity piqued. It was rare for Sideswipe to disclose anything about Sunstreaker, and it was almost unheard of for him to blatantly tell the command element exactly what not to do if they wanted to help the yellow warrior. It was akin to telling Prime just how best to hurt Sunstreaker, and Jazz reasoned that Sideswipe had placed a considerable amount of trust in Prime by telling him that.

Not that Sideswipe was willing to expound. He shrugged a shoulder, as if too lazy or too tired to shrug both. "Just don't do it. And don't tell him I told you that, either."

"No worries," Jazz replied as Sideswipe passed through the door to the Autobot lounge. "Cat's got my tongue on this one."

A surprising number of Autobots clustered about the tables in the lounge, jabbering and tossing back their last few gulps of energon before they went on duty. It was morning, and the day shift crew was three times the size of night crew, which meant there was always a morning crowd before the duty hours started. Normally, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were among the breakfast crowd numbers, but Jazz figured Sideswipe had foregone his routine to keep Sunstreaker company as long as Sunny was restricted to quarters.

At the sight of Sideswipe and Jazz, the room hushed itself considerably, and Jazz looked around to see the hostile gazes of a number of Autobots turned in their direction, mostly from the smaller 'bots. Bumblebee peered out miserably from between Huffer and Cliffjumper, obviously not entirely sure he wanted to be a part of what was obviously the Coalition of Sideswipe and Sunstreaker Haters, Not-So Anonymous, while Brawn and Windcharger looked down at their drinks, avoiding anybody's gaze. Cliffjumper, however, didn't seem to want to be shy. "Hey Siders," he shouted, though he didn't need to raise his voice to be heard in the watchful room, "smeared anyone lately?"

Chuckles rippled around their crowd, as they presented a wall of wolfish grins. Glancing at Sideswipe, Jazz frowned and wondered how much of this he'd had to put up with over the last few weeks. But the red warrior seemed unfazed, and continued his slightly unsteady gait toward medical.

"S'matter, Sideswipe," Powerglide piped up, obviously noting the warrior's slight stumble, "old Sunshine get ahold of you, too?"

A round of laughter and backslaps chased through the crowd before Bluestreak shouted from another group across the room, "Hey, stuff it, 'Glide. Swiper didn't do nothin' to you."

"Yet," the little Autobot plane retorted, and the crowd around him glared in unison.

Not that Sideswipe seemed to notice. He nodded hello to a few of his friends, but was otherwise too tired, or maybe just too good an actor to let them provoke a reaction from him. Jazz suspected a little of both.

Chin high, Sideswipe passed through the doors on the other side of the lounge, and he and Jazz arrived at medical before Jazz had a chance to comment on the other Autobots' hostility. The door hissed open, and Jazz heard Ratchet before he saw him.

"What the _hell_ do you want?" came the voice of one highly exasperated chief medic. "Absolutely not – don't even think about it – out. Get out."

Sideswipe crossed his arms, standing his ground just inside the threshold of the med bay. "I was ordered to come down here."

"Oh, you were?" Ratchet raised his head up from where he'd been hunched over the red and blue form of an unconscious Gears. "Well, you just go and tell whoever ordered you down here that I've met my Irritating Smartass Quotient for the month, and so they can stuff you back into whatever crevice of Hell they spawned you out of, because I don't want to see your face until your next diagnostic."

Sideswipe leveled Jazz with a wry look. "Bet you don't get this kind of love when you come in here."

"Not even," Jazz affirmed, and they both stepped forward to one of the examination tables. Jazz leaned his back against it, elbows propped up behind him, while Sideswipe hopped up on the table and began to swing his legs, heels kicking annoyingly against the side of the table from time to time.

Eventually Ratchet looked up again from his work. "What part of 'go away, you red psycho maniac' did you not understand?"

"Prime's own orders," Sideswipe said with a sweet look, and Jazz couldn't help but grin. Making Ratchet mad was no difficult task, but baiting Ratchet with an artful kind of pinache was an exclusive Sideswipe specialty. And he could do it just by being.

Ratchet growled something inaudible to himself before sliding a steely gaze in Jazz's direction. "Is that true?"

"Scout's honor," Jazz answered, holding up two fingers and grinning broadly.

"Dammit." The medic tossed down his tools and began to wipe some fluid from his fingers. "Dammit! Swoop!" he hollered. "Get in here!" He finished wiping his hands up and rose, glowering at Sideswipe. "What did you do?"

Sideswipe held up his hands as the medic advanced. "Nothing. I've been on light duty for five weeks. I swear."

At the far end of the room, Swoop stuck his head around the corner, optics full of innocent enthusiasm. "What Ratchet want?"

"A nice, sharp blow to the head," Ratchet grumbled as he summoned a scanner from subspace, and began running it over Sideswipe, "but you'll do in a pinch. Come here. I want you to observe this examination."

"Oh," Swoop breathed, and made his way eagerly across the room. He'd been the medic's new acolyte for some weeks now, and he'd taken to his new job with all the seriousness and delight of a turbo-dog rolling in an oil slick.

"So what's wrong with you now?" Ratchet asked, turning his attention back to the red warrior.

Sideswipe shifted and shrugged. "I dunno. A little tired, I guess."

"Tired?" Ratchet gave him a flat look.

"And…" Sideswipe absently scratched his face, looking unhappy with having to elaborate, "…I keep sort of tripping."

"Equilibrium off?" Ratchet opened a small port in Sideswipe's chest plate, and linked his scanner in with a length of cable, while Swoop hovered happily over the medic's shoulder.

Sideswipe nodded.

"And how long has this been going on?"

"Few days," the red warrior answered. "I just keep sort of getting dizzy now and then. And I'm just tired."

"Tired." Ratchet furrowed his brow, and looked up from his scanner to meet Sideswipe's optics. "Well, according to this, the last time you shut down properly was over two weeks ago."

Sideswipe looked distinctly uncomfortable.

Ratchet looked incredulous. "Have you not shut down in over two weeks?"

Sideswipe shook his head. "Not really."

"I knew it!" the medic crowed and pointed a finger in the red warrior's face. "You little shitbird! I knew you would screw my orders up with some stunning act of lunacy. Did I not tell you to shut down regularly? Did I not tell you'd have system failures if you didn't shut down? Your internal repairs are still at work, for Primus' sake."

Behind Ratchet, Swoop shook his head and tsk'd. "Not shut down, that bad, Sideswipe."

Ratchet put both hands on the table, bringing his face on level with Sideswipe's, and Jazz couldn't help a feeling of déjà vu. "And what," the medic asked, voice even, "may I ask, is the reason for this two week spree of sleep deprivation?"

Shrinking back from Ratchet just a bit, Sideswipe shrugged. "Dunno. Can't sleep."

"What, no Mystery Science Theatre fests? No late night pranks with your jailbait brother? No simple yet dazzling acts of sheer stupidity?" Ratchet stood up, and looked down at his scanner again, then set it aside to glare at Sideswipe.

"No," Sideswipe assured him. "I swear. I just can't shut down. I try, but I keep coming back online."

Ratchet tilted his head. "You're serious."

Sideswipe nodded.

"You," the medic said, "Sideswipe, the guy who purposely tried to stop a giant, speeding boulder with his face, all in a spiteful attempt to make me go into fits and convulsions over rebuilding you from paintchips and paperclips, is serious."

"Yes."

"You are serious." The medic stared at him, deadpan. "You are seriously coming to me with a problem that you did not create with your lunatic desire to do Grand Stupid Things. You. You have a problem that you did not create yourself."

"Yes." Sideswipe hesitated. "No. I mean, I don't really have a _problem_."

"You don't have a problem."

"No."

"Yes you do," the medic came back. "You just said you can't sleep."

"Yeah."

"Well," Ratchet smacked his forehead, "that is a problem." He next smacked Sideswipe's forehead, making the warrior's optics widen. "Hello in there," he yelled. "Think of telling me about this last week when you were in here for your checkup?"

Jazz chuckled, then immediately regretted it when the medic's furious gaze was turned on him. "And what are you here for?" Ratchet demanded. "No. Don't tell me. Babysitting on Prime's orders, right? Swoop!" The medic spun, coming nose to nose with a Dinobot that he had obviously thought was much further away. Or rather, nose to chest plate.

"Swoop right here," the Dinobot assured him.

"I see that." Ratchet backed up a step, bumping into Sideswipe's knees. Pinned between the red warrior and the big, gangly Dinobot, Ratchet had suddenly become a perfect illustration of the human phrase 'bull in a china shop', and Jazz couldn't help but guffaw. Quickly, he covered his mouth, but not before Ratchet shot him a withering stare. Turning back to the Dinobot, the medic instructed him to fetch some specific tools, then shooed him away.

"Man, you are popular in this joint," Jazz murmured to Sideswipe, while Ratchet was distracted.

"I told you," Sideswipe whispered back.

"So," the medic turned, making them both jump. "Tell me why you can't sleep."

"I don't know," Sideswipe shrugged. "I told you, I just can't seem to stay shut down. Keep waking up."

"Well, something's happening to cause that," Ratchet said, optics searching Sideswipe as though he suspected the warrior was holding something back. He sighed. "Let's take a look."

Swoop had returned with the requested tools, and now Ratchet busied himself hooking up a new scanner, while Sideswipe waited with a quiet kind of patience that came from being a near-constant fixture in the medical bay. Over the years, Jazz had watched him gleefully fling himself into every shade of mayhem and madness the war had had to offer, only to later submit himself meekly to all the pokings and proddings and antagonism the medical community felt like throwing at him in their frustration with seeing him so often. But Sideswipe didn't care. In fact, he seemed to understand Ratchet's need to harass and generally abuse him, and he took it with a kind of grace and good nature that Jazz rarely saw out of him when he was being harangued. Sideswipe didn't take anybody's crap. But he took Ratchet's.

Now the medic was frowning heavily as he studied his new monitor. "This," he explained, both for their benefit and Swoop's, "is showing me a history of your brainwave activity over the last few weeks. Problem is, I can't figure just when you were shut down, and when you were active. What time did you try to shut down last night?"

Sideswipe thought a moment. "Around twenty-one hundred hours, I think, and then again around zero-one. I don't know. I never really succeeded."

Thoughtfully, Ratchet nodded and stared at the monitor. "Yes. There. I knew it. At twenty-one zero two, your systems were beginning to power down, but at twenty-one eleven, you had an extreme spike in brain activity, and your systems all came back online in a hurry." He put the monitor aside, and looked Sideswipe in the optics. "You forget to tell me something?"

Sideswipe fidgeted and looked away, obviously uncomfortable.

"You're dreaming, aren't you?" the medic accused. Sideswipe's silence confirmed it. "You're dreaming. In fact," Ratchet pressed, "you're having what humans call nightmares. Tell me if I'm wrong."

Sideswipe's mouth twisted downward as he squirmed uncomfortably under the medic's scrutiny. He was obviously embarrassed, Jazz mused, not that Jazz blamed him. Dreaming was rare, nightmares even more so, and information like that would spread like wildfire through the rumor mill, if given half a chance. Then there would come the taunting, followed by inevitable question of Sideswipe's courage in light of his inability to sleep, and finally the brawl that resulted from Sideswipe having to prove his status as a Big Nasty. Not that Sideswipe should have to prove himself to anyone. Jazz doubted there were many Autobots half as brave as the red warrior, and of that number, he doubted many would gladly take Sideswipe on in an honest fight. Yet there would be fighting, followed by damaged Autobots dragging their sorry selves to medical, and then Ratchet would have a whole shiny new reason to choke the life out of Sideswipe. Jazz sighed, and glanced over at the unconscious Gears. He hoped none of this was reaching the little Autobot's audios.

"Well," Ratchet said, "let's have a look at this little problem."

Sideswipe shot him a worried look. "What do you mean, 'have a look'?"

Ratchet smirked. "Hmph. I've never known you to be afraid of a bit of poking and prodding."

"I'm not afraid," Sideswipe asserted.

"Oh no? Lay down." Ratchet gestured at the table, and Sideswipe reluctantly but obediently lay on his back. Brow furrowed, he watched while the medic attached various cables to ports in the side of his head, but he didn't resist, and merely folded his hands over his chest and looked decidedly unhappy.

"What Ratchet do?" came Swoop's soft, piping voice.

Ratchet responded as he worked. "I'm going to have Sideswipe here shut down for us, so we can monitor just when all this extra mental activity starts. Hand me that adapter."

Swoop passed over the piece Ratchet needed, and together they made the final adjustments on the monitor. Sideswipe watched Swoop out of the corner of his optics, looking unsure of the big Dinobot's ministrations, but to his credit, he said nothing. "Now," Ratchet said, giving Sideswipe a pat on the shoulder, "let's see you in action. Sleepy time, young Skywalker."

Sideswipe uttered a short, sharp sigh, then complied. Jazz watched his optics dim and then close as their protective lids came down. The warrior's face went slack, looking almost peaceful as his systems methodically powered down and settled him into restorative stasis. For several long minutes he lay like that, almost eerily still, as the monitors around him blinked and beeped in soft chorus, and Jazz felt himself lulled with an overwhelming urge to shut down himself. He smiled, enjoying the peace of the quiet bay as he, Ratchet and Swoop stood watching and waiting.

A monitor spiked, and Sideswipe flung himself off the table before he was even awake. Shrieking and clawing at the cables around him, the warrior scrambled backward, slammed into another table, and summoned all his weaponry at once. "Fire in the hole!" Ratchet yelped, and in unison, he, Jazz and Swoop all hurled themselves down behind the nearest table and braced themselves.

They cringed there for a good minute before Jazz decided, in light of the notable absence of missiles whistling by, to brave a look. He poked his head up, ever so carefully, and when it wasn't shot off, he was followed by Swoop and then Ratchet. Together, the three peered out over the table top. "Hey, Siders?" Jazz queried. "You alright?"

Sideswipe stood looking around, optics still a little wild as he scanned the room for whatever had given him such a scare. Slowly, by degrees, he began to relax and look about him, the slow light of recognition warming in his optics as he realized where he was. He looked up, met the gazes of the other three Autobots, and gave himself a shake. It was taking some time for him to come to, but at last he seemed to assess the situation, and at length he offered a small, sheepish grin as he subspaced his arsenal, which had still been very unpleasantly pointed in Jazz's direction. Slowly, he looked down at the tangle of cables around him, and he began to gingerly disengage himself, while trying not to disconnect or damage anything. "Uh, sorry," he said.

Ratchet, Swoop and Jazz came out of hiding, and Ratchet moved to help Sideswipe with all the cables and monitors he'd dragged with himself. Carefully, Ratchet unwound the last of the mess, then maneuvered the warrior back to the examination table with a surprising amount of care. Once he had him sitting again, Ratchet leveled him with an unusually sympathetic gaze. "Something's really got you bothered, doesn't it, son?"

Sideswipe met his gaze, and in Sideswipe fashion, shrugged. He looked around. "Sorry, uh, about all that. Heh," he half-smiled, "if it makes you feel better, I almost took Sunstreaker's head off the other night with my piledrivers."

"Sunstreaker, hm?" Ratchet caught the warrior's chin and turned his face upward to meet the medic's gaze again. "Tell me the truth. When did these nightmares start?"

"I told you," Sideswipe answered, "two weeks ago."

"What day?"

Sideswipe frowned and darted a glance to the side. "The night Sunstreaker got put in the Hole," he admitted, and the medic straightened, nodding as though he were starting to put something together.

"Is there something bothering you, Sideswipe?" Ratchet asked bluntly.

The warrior looked up. "No! That's the thing. Until two weeks ago, I felt great. I mean, other than being a little sore from that whole thing with the boulder. Really. I have no idea why I can't sleep, or why I…see stuff." He screwed up his face, looking as though he'd said more than he'd wanted to.

"What stuff?" Ratchet asked.

"I dunno," Sideswipe replied. "Stuff. I can't really explain it."  
"Try," Ratchet said.

"Well, I don't remember most of it," Sideswipe began, then looked from Jazz to

Swoop as if considering whether it was safe to elaborate. Finally, he let out a short sigh and looked down. "It's like…like I'm seeing out of somebody else's optics. Like they aren't even my dreams." Quickly, he looked up again, and fixed Jazz and Swoop with a menacing stare. "And if either of you tells anyone that…"

"This information doesn't leave this bay," Ratchet assured him, with a meaningful look for both Jazz and Swoop, not that Jazz needed it. He had neither the intention of spreading rumors about Sideswipe, nor the wish to earn his retaliation. Threats from Sideswipe were rare, and never idle.

The medic returned his attention to the red warrior, and considered him for a long moment, arms crossed, while Swoop, Jazz, and certainly Sideswipe stared at him and wondered what he was thinking. At last the red warrior threw up his hands. "I'm not crazy, I swear!"

"I believe you," Ratchet said, giving Sideswipe a pat on the arm. "Now lay down."

"Why?" Sideswipe braced himself, unwilling to revisit anything resembling the land of sleep. "I was already supposed to be on duty five minutes ago."

"Duty?" Ratchet snorted, pushing Sideswipe onto the table. "You're not going on duty. You're shutting down and giving your internal repairs a chance to catch up."

"But—"

"No 'buts'." Ratchet pushed a struggling Sideswipe back onto the table, and Jazz noted that the big medic could hold his own when he wanted to. "And lay still. I'm setting up a bypass that should suppress any kind of mental activity while you're shut down, so you can get some uninterrupted sleep."

"Should?" Sideswipe asked, reluctantly allowing Ratchet to hook a mass of cables into him once again.

"Don't worry," Ratchet smiled, and gave Sideswipe another pat, this one on the forehead. "If anything goes wrong, Swoop will be here watching over you. Now shut yourself down."

A very skeptical Sideswipe eyed the medic from where he lay, but Siders had never disobeyed the medic before, and he wasn't about to start now. All but bracing himself, he shut his optics and began the process of powering down. "All the way," Ratchet said after a moment of staring at his monitors, and Jazz grinned in surprise as he realized Sideswipe had been doing an excellent job of faking it. The red warrior sighed, shut down the last of his systems, and his face went slack again.

Ratchet stared, unblinking, at the monitors for fifteen minutes before looking back up. "Swoop, I want you to watch him. I think the bypass is working, but if you see any level of activity beyond point five on this monitor, let me know."

Swoop nodded, obviously pleased with his assignment. "Swoop watch over Sideswipe." He uttered a high, piercing squawk as he pulled a chair over to where Sideswipe lay. "Swoop not take his optics off him."

"Good." Ratchet clapped a hand down on Swoop's shoulder, and turned his attention toward Jazz. "You," he said, optics narrowing slightly as he gave the order to summon the last person he likely wanted to see, "bring me the yellow one."

* * *

A knock sounded at the door, booming in the silence like the sound of rifle fire. Sunstreaker, nearly done shining his left shin guard, studiously ignored it.

The sound came again, and it vaguely reminded Sunstreaker that there were people to whom he was accountable, but in his haze he chose to let the thought go. He'd been so pleasantly thinking about nothing at all, and he certainly didn't want to be bothered now, much less see anyone with whom he was really irritated. And since he was pretty much irritated with everyone right now, it was safe to say that Sunstreaker just wanted to be left the hell alone.

A hiss sounded as the door slid open, lock picked by some unmannered cretin. So much for bliss.

"Hey, Sunny, man," came the sound of Jazz's voice, "sorry 'bout the lock. If you'd answer your door, I wouldn't have to override it."

Sunstreaker, leaning over his left leg, looked up to fix Jazz with a flat stare. "But if I answer when people knock, then that encourages people to come banging on my door. It sets a precedent, you see."

Jazz smirked. "Listen, dude, Ratchet wants to see you."

"That's nice for Ratchet." Sunstreaker straightened, tightening his mouth at the state his chassis was in. No matter how much he scrubbed, he just wasn't getting all the scuffs out. Not without proper care. Returning his gaze to Jazz, he saw that the other Autobot was standing half in and half out of the doorway, as though expecting Sunstreaker to follow him. Sunstreaker let out a longsuffering sigh. "If I don't come with you willingly, you're planning to annoy me into cooperating, aren't you?"

"No," Jazz corrected him. "If you don't come with me willingly, I'm planning on calling for large, well-armed Autobots, possibly in the shape of Slag and Snarl, neither of whom will be too gentle on your paint job."

Sunstreaker glowered, but ultimately conceded that the black and white Autobot had a point. Cursing under his breath, he subspaced the cloth he'd been using, and trudged after Jazz with all the dignity he could muster. Not that he could muster much, since trudging was not the most dignified way of moving one's self, but to be frank, he was just feeling too surly to do anything else.

Once out in the hall, Sunstreaker quickened his pace, and smiled inwardly as he saw that Jazz had to hurry to keep up. That was better. Keep 'em off balance and watch for the opening to strike. That was the way he'd stayed alive all these years, and that was how he intended to continue staying alive. Idly, he studied Jazz out of the corner of his optics, and considered both the quickest and the most fun ways of killing him. Not that he was really thinking of killing Jazz, of course. It was just a mental exercise he ran through, one that kept him on his toes, so to speak. He'd done it with every Autobot but Sideswipe, and certainly with every Decepticon, and by now it was safe to say that he had a pretty good idea on how best to maul, mutilate or deactivate everyone he knew, which was not only good knowledge on the battlefield, but good information Ark-side, too. One could never be too careful, and though there were very few reasons for which Sunstreaker would ever actually kill an Autobot, it certainly didn't occur to him that there was anything wrong with knowing the best way to do just that.

Besides, it was a comfort to him to think about his job. That's what he'd been created for, to kill, and it didn't bother him any more than it bothered someone like Skydive to be a voracious student of aerial warfare. Killing was what Sunstreaker was made for. It was what he was.

Something bumped into his arm, and he snapped his gaze around to see Mirage, backing into him with a floor buffer. "Watch it," Sunstreaker snarled over the hum of the machine, and shoved Mirage off of him with more force that was necessary. Imbecile. Scowling, Sunstreaker flexed his arm and inspected it for scratches as he drifted onward down the hallway. Could these oafs do nothing around here without constantly buffeting and chafing against him? Primus, it's not like the Ark was a cramped place.

"Easy, Mirage," Sunstreaker heard Jazz's voice behind him, but he barely registered it, as he suddenly stood transfixed by the glassy floor beneath his feet. Fascinated, he stared down at his own golden image, inverted and suspended against the deep orange of the floor, and he let out a low whistle of admiration. Even with all the scuffs he'd suffered while in the Hole, Sunstreaker had to admit, he was still the most beautiful, most artfully constructed being on this planet. He tilted his head, taking in the clean lines of his chassis, the perfect balance of his form, and even the absolute symmetry of his face. There was no one who had a face like his, not even his twin. No, Sideswipe's mouth was just slightly crooked. You could tell when he grinned that stupid grin of his, and it made Sunstreaker cringe just a bit, seeing the imperfection. He scowled at the thought, but only briefly, because he noted that even when he scowled, his face was still utterly, disarmingly perfect, and it almost made him smile.

Except that he rarely smiled, and he certainly didn't feel like doing so now, especially with Jazz wheedling at him to keep walking. "Come on, Sunny," he heard the other Autobot prod him, and with a sigh, Sunstreaker tore his gaze away from his reflection, and trudged on toward medical. Along the way, he entertained thoughts on how to kill Mirage.

The Autobot lounge was almost empty when Sunstreaker and Jazz passed through, and that was just fine by Sunstreaker. He didn't really feel like talking to anyone, much less taking the chance of someone else bumping into him and adding yet another scratch to his poor body. He'd been through enough already. Cooly, he glanced around at the few Autobots in the room, as if daring them to cross paths with him and worsen his already foul mood. Not that they moved from their seats, or did anything but silently glare in his direction, or simply avoid his gaze altogether. Sunstreaker glowered. Hand out just one beating, (and a well-deserved one, at that), and these guys would hold a grudge for months. Bunch of civilians, anyway. Bunch of sappy, squeamish civilians, who couldn't stomach the sight of one of their buddies getting thrashed, much less understand that a good thrashing was sometimes necessary, and always effective. Sunstreaker would bet his spoiler that Gears would think twice before mouthing off to him again.

Their arrival in med bay was met with the same stony silence, not that it bothered Sunstreaker one bit. He sauntered in, and ambled toward the nearest examination table, where he sat and surveyed the room. "What's wrong with Sideswipe?" Sunstreaker asked, as he immediately spotted his brother's unmoving form lying in one corner of the room, under the watchful optics of Swoop.

"That's what I was about to ask you," came Ratchet's voice, and Sunstreaker turned to see the medic rise from where he'd been working on Gears. Ratchet stepped around the table, optics narrow with barely suppressed hostility, as if he were creeping toward some particularly unpleasant and distasteful Decepticon.

"Ask me what?" Sunstreaker grumbled, already annoyed with Ratchet's obvious dislike for him.

The medic's fingers curled briefly, as if itching to claw something, and Ratchet stopped two solid paces away, as if he really didn't want to come any closer. Judging by the look on the medic's face, Sunstreaker wasn't sure whether Ratchet didn't trust himself to not claw Sunstreaker's optics out, or if it was the other way around. "I am concerned," Ratchet said in a slow, controlled voice, "about your brother. Apparently, he hasn't been shutting down properly, and I want to know why."

"Hell if I know," Sunstreaker retorted. "All I know is he's kept me online with all the damn noise he makes."

"Noise?" the medic asked.

"Yeah, yelling and screaming like a big sissy," Sunstreaker answered, "not to mention getting those damn piledrivers out. That's enough to wake the dead, even he doesn't manage to hit you with 'em. Why? You gonna fix him so I can get some friggin' sleep?"

Ratchet studied him for a moment, mouth downturned, and Sunstreaker glared back. Why'd they have to drag him in here just to ask him about Sideswipe? Couldn't they just do some kind of systems diagnostic and fix whatever was fragged? It's not like Sunstreaker hadn't suffered enough already, what with being aggravated by Sideswipe every night since he'd gotten out of the Hole, and right now he really didn't feel like being nagged by an overly self-important medic. "So," Ratchet said finally, "you haven't actually had trouble shutting down yourself."

"I told you," Sunstreaker responded testily, "I can't sleep on account of the insufferable noise Sideswipe's been making. What part of that did you not understand?"

Ratchet opened his mouth for a retort, then snapped it shut, as if thinking better of what he'd been about to say. For a long moment, the medic stood and stared at Sunstreaker, visibly quelling himself while Sunstreaker stared cooly back and waited. The sniping would start again. It always did. It had gone this way for years. Somebody would irritate Sunstreaker, the yellow warrior would retaliate, and then the Autobot population at large would subject him to their insufferable brand of righteous indignation, while expecting Sunstreaker to humble himself and grovel in apology. Well, he wasn't having that. And he certainly wasn't in the mood to start meekly complying with what anybody wanted, not after two weeks in that wretched, intolerable Hole, not even if that somebody was the medic.

Unless…

He shifted his gaze toward Sidewipe again. "He's just shut down, right?"

Ratchet eyed him, and Sunstreaker returned his attention to the medic in time to see a mixture of emotion flit across Ratchet's optics, as though the medic were remembering something. "Yes," he replied, far more gently than Sunstreaker had expected, "he's just shut down." Grabbing some tools, Ratchet grew brisk again as he resigned himself to his task and stepped to where Sunstreaker sat. "Which is what I want to see you do. Now hold still."

"What?" Sunstreaker shrank back, sidling so Ratchet couldn't open the ports on his chestplate. "I don't need to shut down."

"Hold still, would you?" Ratchet growled, and clamped a hand down on Sunstreaker's shoulder.

Sunstreaker squirmed, feeling a bit of alarm rise up. He was _not_ shutting down. "Hey, what – what are you doing?" he asked, voice harsh with concern, as Ratchet managed to get his access port open.

"What's wrong?" Ratchet eyed him, brow raised suspiciously. "You can't shut down for me for five minutes?"

Sunstreaker frowned, and looked from Ratchet to Jazz and back again. He knew with certainty that there wasn't a way out of this, not without getting really belligerent, and that would naturally end up with him thrown in the Hole again, which he would simply not have. He also envisioned a bunch of Dinobots getting called in to hold him down while Ratchet strapped him into the examination table, and then he'd be restrained…He scooted back as far as he could on the table without falling off the other side, and reflexively brought his knees halfway up in a defensive posture, as if to kick Ratchet away. "Don't shut me down."

Ratchet stared at him, somewhere between exasperation and the dawn of understanding. "And why not?" he asked.

Sunstreaker pressed his mouth into a tight line, and looked from Ratchet to Jazz again, as he seriously considered trying his hand at belligerence. "I am not shutting down," he said, adamant.

"Oh, yes you are," Ratchet assured him as he continued to work with one hand, while holding Sunstreaker relatively still with the other. "And if you don't shut down voluntarily, I'll just have to shut you down manually, and that means getting Swoop over there to help me lock you down. You want that?"

Sunstreaker shot a glance toward the gawky Dinobot, who looked up at the mention of his name, face alight. Lip curled, Sunstreaker offered Swoop an ugly glare, and felt a little better as he watched the Dinobot's innocent enthusiasm crumple into a kind of confused reproach. "I don't want that creature touching me."

"Fine," Ratchet said, voice edged again with irritation. "Then hold still. Unless you want to just tell me what has you so scared about all this. Then I might not have to do a diagnostic."

"I'm not scared," Sunstreaker said defiantly.

"Oh yeah?" Ratchet came back, a gleam in his optics. "That's what Sideswipe said."

Reluctantly, Sunstreaker allowed Ratchet to connect a few cables. "What are you going to do to me?"

"Monitor you while you're shut down."

Still leaning as far back as he could possibly manage, Sunstreaker watched with extreme distrust as Ratchet opened a port on the side of the yellow warrior's head. "You're not going to leave me shut down, are you?" he asked, as a new, very frightening thought occurred to him. What if they weren't done punishing him? What if they planned on shutting him down for an extended period of time and leaving his mind to wander in his own, personal version of the Hole?

Ratchet paused to look at him, optics narrowed as he studied Sunstreaker's face. "No," he said, his tone a bit surprised, "I only need about five to ten minutes. Fifteen at the very most. Now lay down."'

Very, very reluctantly, and very aware that if he didn't cooperate, he would be unpleasantly forced to comply, Sunstreaker lay down on his back and clutched the sides of the table. Any trust he might have ever had in the medic was completely vanished, and only the sure knowledge that he had absolutely no choice in this kept him lying still. "How do I know you're telling the truth?"

"You'll have to trust me," was Ratchet's less-than-comforting reply, and Sunstreaker forced himself to hold still as he allowed the medic, who he knew disliked him and was very capable of hurting him, begin the process of shutting him down.

"Just a few minutes, Sunny," he heard Jazz's voice, and felt a friendly pat on his arm.

"Don't touch me," he tried to snarl, but found that as the room darkened, his voice had grown faint, as he was suddenly too weary to do more than mumble his protests as he sank into the chilly black of sleep.

* * *

He dreamed, (or maybe it wasn't a dream), that he was in the Hole again. Over and over again he paced the tiny floor, fingers trailing lightly along the icy walls, as he kept always just one step ahead of remembering. What was he supposed to remember? He could all but feel it, just there at the tip of his mind, something so terribly important, and at the same time so purely awful that he felt if he remembered it, it would slice him to his core; yet if he didn't remember it, he would remain lost, and would wander back and forth across the floor of this bitter, vacant hole for the rest of his life.

Hurrying, his fingers racing now along the walls, he quickened his pace to a shuffling jog. How he wished he could lengthen his stride, and let his long legs stretch out and hurl him headlong away from this black place. Or better yet, he wished he could transform and speed through the gloom until he could feel the wind along his sides, and see the sun bleeding up over the edge of the world. But there was no room to transform, and no horizon to race toward, and not even any light by which to see his way. He was lost, and this room smelled so terribly like the black of nothing, and he wanted to scream and claw his way up and out of the trapdoor, where there was light, where there were faces.

Except there was no trap door.

He stood, staring, blinking. Dumbly, he gaped. And then the images caught up, and he remembered.

"Hold still, dammit!" he heard Sideswipe growl over the roar of his piledrivers and the clatter of flying rock.

Sunstreaker winced and fidgeted, optics squeezed half-shut against the spatter of debris. "I am holding still!" he shouted back, mouth instantly filled with grit. He spat, and ground his teeth. "And – OW! For Primus' sake, Sideswipe, that was my _knee_!"

"Well, if you'd stop squirming about like a baby – ung –" Sideswipe grunted with effort as he chiseled through another layer of rock, "—I wouldn't come close to touching you. So quit yer bitchin'."

"Bitching?!" Sunstreaker squawked. "You just tore the holy hell out of my knee, you son of –"

Sideswipe looked up in time to see a fifteen-ton boulder hurtling toward him. Sunstreaker remembered looking up to see his brother's chestplate, scratched and chipped down to primer, as time slowed enough for him to realize that Sideswipe was not jumping out of the way. He braced himself instead, and Sunstreaker had a split second to look at Sideswipe's face, optics squeezed shut and brows knitted in anticipation of pain or worse, as he leaned protectively over the spot where Sunstreaker was pinned.

The next thing Sunstreaker remembered was that his name was being shouted over and over. Someone slapped his face and shook him, and when he finally blinked, it was to look past Trailbreaker's shoulder to where his brother's body lay crumpled and twisted into the dirt. Distantly, he felt the bright stabs of pain that he would later understand were coming from his crushed legs, but for now he felt almost nothing, as the warm, comforting lull of shock seeped through his frame.

His knee hurt him. He thought he should shout again for Sideswipe to stop frigging piledriving him in the knee, and wondered how anyone related to him could be so damn stupid as to have such rotten aim, when he realized that Sideswipe was no longer hitting him.

The peaceable lull washed over him again, numbing his mind and body. He remembered something about a riding back to base in a trailer, and the soothing, rumbling vibration of his back pressed against the trailer wall, while he watched a large, white Autobot growl and curse as he fumbled frantically with a laser scalpel. Sunstreaker had no idea what he was doing, and couldn't fathom why it was so important, or why it riveted him so much that he was terrified to look away.

He must have looked away, though, because he didn't remember being hauled into the medical bay, and he only knew himself next when he felt a horrible pressure at his knee. A sharp burst of pain shot through him, and he wanted to scream, but his only reaction was to slowly swim to the surface of his mind, where he looked out his own optics and into the face of the medic. Ratchet. Sunstreaker felt himself reach out to touch the other Autobot's arm.

"He shouldn't have done that," Sunstreaker heard himself say. "He can't do that." That's right. Ratchet would make it better. He would fix it so Sideswipe would jump out of the way. He would tell Sideswipe what a stupid, frigging idiot he was to just stand there like a lump when a gigantic boulder was hurling itself straight toward him, and Sideswipe would surely have to see his point, because after all, he was Ratchet the Medic Who Made All Things Right. And then Sideswipe would stop acting like a loony, and would get the hell out of the way of that really big, really fast-moving boulder.

But Ratchet didn't make things right. In fact, he hurt Sunstreaker terribly while he was patching his knee, mostly because he was just doing a quick-fix, and Sunstreaker really wanted to shout at him to do a proper job, but he just couldn't find his voice. So he let the medic work unmolested, and when Ratchet was done, Sunstreaker found a corner of the med bay where he could sit and watch in misery while the medical staff labored over the broken, scattered parts of Sideswipe's body.

No lull came this time, no peace, no comfortable shock. Instead, his mind was very painfully rejoining his body, and when he finally found himself ejected from the medical bay, (for reasons he didn't understand), it was like being abandoned into the harsh brightness of some alien world. Unsure of what to do with himself, and still only half-cognizant, Sunstreaker sat on the floor outside of med bay and nursed his knee while he absently rubbed his temples and tried to think of any possible way out of remembering why he felt so bad. Sideswipe. The paint was chipped on his chestplate, and Sunstreaker knew that when his brother's paint was chipped, it meant there was war, and when there was war there was ugliness, and when there was ugliness, there was death, and when there was death, there came loneliness. And when there was loneliness, there was pain.

Someone was irritating him. It started with a whiney buzz, and Sunstreaker tried desperately to ignore it, because the noise was waking him up to all the pain he was in, and he couldn't tolerate that. But no matter how he tried to ignore it, the buzz persisted, maddening him, and the next thing he knew he was slamming someone against the wall, while fire shot all through his knee at having to move so quickly. "Get…away…from me," he breathed, talking to his own consciousness as much as to the irritating Autobot he was busy smashing against the wall, because both were guilty of making him feel pain. But it did no good. No sooner had the little Autobot scampered away than five big, clanging ones charged in to investigate all the noise, and Sunstreaker clamped his hands over his audios and began shouting the blackest, basest insults he could manage to scrape out of the recesses of his struggling mind, all in his attempt to simply make everyone go away. It didn't work. The easily-insulted Dinobots merely roared their indignance and even took a swipe or two at him, which made him use his battered knee, and sent agonizing bolts up his leg and into his very frame. That woke him up. That made him remember.

Sideswipe was dying.

Slowly, gingerly, Sunstreaker felt behind him until his fingers brushed up against the frigid wall, and he pressed his back against it so he could slide down to huddle on the floor, arms wrapped around his knees as he shivered and shook. He was back in the Hole. Or rather, he'd never left, or it had never left him, and he felt the slow rise of his own terror as he realized that if Sideswipe died, Sunstreaker would never step foot outside of his cell again, because he didn't know the way out, and without Sideswipe, there was nobody who knew where to find him. His head in his hands, his optics squeezed shut, Sunstreaker felt the awful keening begin again in his throat, but he knew there was nobody to hear. There had been nobody to hear him when Sideswipe lay dying, nobody to hear him when he'd sat in the lounge all those days and waited to hear the news that his brother and very best friend was gone, and there had certainly been nobody to hear him when they'd thrown him in the Hole and dropped the door shut over his head like a hammer on its gavel. They'd isolated him for so long that it had become the simplest and most effective answer to anything Sunstreaker did, and now that Sideswipe was dying and Sunstreaker was in this black hole of a place, he knew it was only a matter of time before the others forgot he existed, and then he would die, too, his name removed from the lists as though he had never been at all.

You see, Sunstreaker was not afraid of war or even death; he was afraid of being alone.

Shuddering, he clamped his hands tighter over his head and began to rock back and forth as he uttered a long, low, involuntary wail of hopelessness. No one would ever hear him. No one would ever look, not if Sideswipe died, not if his twin was severed from him, and he was left utterly abandoned in this black, icy place. He rocked and rocked, and his terror grew, and he knew in the utmost depths of him that if Sideswipe died, he it would be better to follow him than to face the eternity of loneliness that yawned before him like a chasm.

* * *

Jazz didn't like the look on Ratchet's face. The medic had been looking at the monitors for nearly a quarter of an hour now, and his frown had deepened with each passing minute.

"Something wrong?" Jazz asked, breaking the silence.

"I don't know," Ratchet murmured, staring. He flicked a glance in Sideswipe's direction, but the red warrior was still resting peacefully under Swoop's watchful gaze. Looking back down at the monitors, he sighed. "He's not spiking like Sideswipe did, but his mind is very active, much more so than when he was awake. He's dreaming, but if they're nightmares, he's not waking up."

"Well, shouldn't we wake him?" Jazz asked. "I mean, you're the doc, but you did say no more than fifteen minutes."

Again Ratchet sighed. "I suppose, though this diagnostic didn't tell me anything. I still don't see why Sideswipe would be affected, or what's causing Sunstreaker's dreams to begin with." He reached forward, about to unplug a set of cables, when Swoops' voice stayed his hand.

"Swoop know why Sideswipe has nightmare," the Dinobot said softly.

Ratchet paused, and in unison he and Jazz looked over to where the Dinobot sat. "Oh?" the medic asked, more to humor the gawky Autobot than for any other reason. "And why's that?"

"Sideswipe dream 'cause Sunstreaker dream," Swoop explained, fixing Ratchet with his quiet gaze. "Minds linked."

"Minds linked?" Ratchet repeated. "What do you mean?"

"Like Aerialbot," Swoop replied. "When Aerialbot become Superion, minds link. Same with twins."

Ratchet frowned, optics thoughtful. "Yes, Swoop, that's true. The Aerialbot minds are linked in gestalt mode. But when they're separate, there's no telepathic connection."

But Swoop regarded the medic evenly, face confident. "Swoop know when other Dinobot really upset. Swoop not know how, but Swoop just know. And Swoop not part of combiner team – not a twin, either."

Ratchet looked back down at Sunstreaker, who lay still as stone, face completely blank. "So you're suggesting," he said, "that the twins' minds are linked, at least intuitively?"

Swoop cocked his head, optics hazy, as he most likely searched his database for a definition of 'intuitively', and after a moment his face brightened as he obviously found his answer. "Yes," he affirmed. "'Tuitive link. That what twins have. Swoop read about it."

"You read about it?" Ratchet asked, more than humoring the Dinobot now. His curiosity was truly piqued.

"Yes," Swoop said. "While Swoop watch Sideswipe, Swoop search Earth database. Transformer twins very rare, but human twins not rare. And database says human twins sometimes have 'tuitive link. So Swoop think, maybe Sideswipe and Sunstreaker not so different from human twins."

"Swoop," Ratchet said, a smile creeping across his face, "I'm impressed. You did good. In fact, I think you just solved Sideswipe's troubles."

Thoroughly pleased, Swoop beamed.

"An intuitive link," Ratchet mused excitedly. "I never really thought of that. I thought it was something more on the psychological line, something that was bothering both of the brothers at once, but if they're linked down to the laser core…" he shook his head, "…well, that's all beyond me."

"Which means what?" Jazz asked, a little chagrinned at being one step behind a conversation that was easily understood by a Dinobot.

"Which means," Ratchet explained as he began to work on Sunstreaker again, "that if Swoop is right, then the trouble with Sideswipe probably has nothing to do with Sideswipe at all. In fact, in order to help him, we have to help old Sunstreaker here. And that," he added with a wink, "is something I hope someone else will be able to do."

Jazz spread his hands. "Don't look at me. I generally wouldn't touch ol' Sunny with a ten-meter pole."

Ratchet smirked. "Most 'bots wouldn't. Now watch out. I'm about to bring him online, and I don't know if he'll come up guns blazin' or not."

The medic made a few final adjustments, then gave Sunstreaker a friendly pat on the chestplate before finally activating him. "Rise and shine," he said, and took several hasty steps back in preparation to fling himself behind the nearest large and sturdy object.

It wasn't necessary. Sunstreaker jerked upright, which made both Jazz and Ratchet flinch, but beyond that he merely blinked around at the room and looked extremely bewildered. Slowly, he drew his legs up and rubbed his knee a bit, as though it pained him, while his optics methodically roved about the bay.

"Sunny?" Jazz attempted. "You ok?"

Sunstreaker didn't answer him. Shaking a little, he continued to search the room around him as though trying to make sense of a completely foreign world, and Jazz noted that wherever his mind had gone, it had left him more than just a little scared. Whatever nightmare Sideswipe might have dreamed, Sunstreaker's had obviously been worse.

As it seemed there would be no arsenal forthcoming out of subspace, Ratchet took a few brave steps forward. "Hey, Sunstreaker." He snapped his fingers, looking for reaction. "You awake?"

"I don't think he hears you," Jazz pointed out, as Sunstreaker was still shifting his gaze about the room, seemingly unsure if he could trust what he saw. Still shivering, his armor clattered against the metal table.

Ratchet crept forward another step, obviously still unsure whether he'd see missile launchers and electron-pulse guns unsubspaced and directed toward his faceplate. "Sunstreaker," he attempted again, and this time reached out a hand to push the yellow warrior's shoulder, just ever so lightly.

Like a viper Sunstreaker lashed out with a punch, and Ratchet suddenly found himself crashing to the floor, while Sunstreaker pushed himself away from the exam table and backed up into the far wall, all his available weapons brought to bear. Hollering, Ratchet scrambled for cover, which Jazz had already very wisely found for himself, while Swoop froze next to Sideswipe, who wasn't far from where Sunstreaker crouched, bristling.

"Sunny," Jazz shouted from where he hid, "wake up, man."

"I am not going back in the Hole," Sunstreaker snarled in response, and Jazz and Ratchet shared a confused look.

"Nobody's putting you in the Hole," Ratchet assured him, while working his jaw around and prodding it gingerly with a thumb and forefinger.

"Bullshit," Sunstreaker snapped back, and Jazz heard the almost inaudibly high whine of one of his launchers arming itself. "I was just there."

Again Jazz and Ratchet shared a look, this one a bit alarmed. "You were shut down, dude," Jazz told him, "that's all. Don't you remember?"

"You're gonna shut me away," Sunstreaker accused, voice sounding a bit panicky, and that was bad, because on the rare occasions when Sunstreaker panicked, he always responded with blinding bouts of violence, which was to say that whatever he'd done to Gears was minor compared with what he was capable of now.

Not that Jazz was necessarily afraid of him. Well, no more than was wise, considering Sunstreaker was comparable to Slag in the meanness category, not to mention ruthlessly good at his job. "Sunny," Jazz tried to reassure him, "nobody's shutting you anywhere. You were dreaming, dude."

But Sunstreaker was not to be pacified, and Jazz could all but hear him coiling to spring. "I don't dream," he said flatly.

Jazz looked at Ratchet, who was quite contentedly tucked behind a very sturdy pylon. "He's on the fritz," Jazz said in a lowered voice, balling himself more tightly behind his own barricade. "How long till he snaps out of it? 'Cause there's no talking to him while he's like this."

"You don't say," Ratchet said dryly, still working his jaw. Sunstreaker must have hit him hard. "Way I see it, if this is an extension of his nightmares, he could be like this for hours. Hell, if it has to do with putting him in the Hole, he's probably been this way for weeks."

Jazz frowned. "Been what way for weeks?"

Ratchet indicated Sunstreaker with a tip of his head. "Seems our boy is having a little trouble with reality, don't you think?"

Jazz offered a look of mock surprise. "What, Sunstreaker having reality troubles? Never."

"Right," Ratchet corrected himself. "Then he's even more fried than usual."

"I'll agree with you there," Jazz offered, but if he wanted to say more, he was cut off by Sunstreaker.

"What are you doing?" he snapped, suspicious, and Jazz could hear the subtle click of metal against metal as the yellow warrior settled his weapon more firmly in his hand. "You're calling security, aren't you?"

"You know," Ratchet said, optics bright, "that is a good idea."

Jazz frowned. "Only if you want a fight on your hands."

"Oh, right," the medic shot him a dry look. "Yeah, it's not like we're pinned down by Mr. Nasty and his pain-inducing friends, Missile and Launcher. Yeah, you're right. Let's definitely not call security. After all, you can go talk to him."

Jazz sighed. "Sunny," he raised his voice, "we won't call security if you put your weapons away."

"Then you'll put me in the Hole," Sunstreaker accused.

Ratchet was already paging Ironhide, and Jazz got that ages-old sinking feeling that always sprung on him just before the world went to hell in a hand basket. "You know," he told Ratchet after the medic had finished summoning a few chaos-bringers, "they're probably going to put him in the brig, and they might even put him in the Hole."

"Well, that will suck for him," Ratchet replied, "but not for me."

"It won't help him," Jazz pointed out.

A flash of remorse briefly lit the medic's optics, but was quickly and firmly replaced with a stubborn, businesslike look. "I can't help him if he insists on blowing my bay to pieces, along with my other patients, one of which is his brother."

"Sunstreaker," Jazz tried a final time, "security is on its way, but if you 'space your weapons, they might just leave you alone. We don't wanna hurt you."

He got no response, and was just beginning to wonder if it had been wise to tell the yellow warrior about security's impending arrival when the door whooshed open, and all the merry havoc-wreaking commenced. Before Jazz could see who had arrived, Sunstreaker launched one of his missiles, and Ratchet barely had time to yelp something about fire being in the hole before a great ball of flame bloomed and spread through the bay like a living animal. The simultaneous crack of the explosion thundered so loud that Jazz's audios shut down, and he could only watch through the eerie silence as a trio of lasers volleyed back through the smoke. Fortunately, one of the arriving Autobots was Trailerbreaker, who had wisely put up his forcefield before even entering medbay, and now he, Ironhide and Brawn were advancing behind the field as they sniped around the sides with their lasers. Wading through the rubble that was once the entrance to medical, they tried to knock Sunstreaker down with stun bolts, but it wasn't easy to maneuver around the field.

On top of that, Sunstreaker was simply too quick. Diving in a neat roll, he'd come up behind another pylon, and was busily firing off shots with his gun, which was very definitely not set to stun. The far wall was peppered with steaming holes, not to mention the barricades behind which Jazz and Ratchet were currently cowering, hands over their heads to ward off the flying debris. Frantically, Jazz tried to look for Swoop, but he couldn't get his head far enough around to see the Dinobot without having it shot off. He also worried about Gears, though the little Autobot was far away on the other side of the bay, and for now relatively safe.

Sideswipe wasn't, though. Jazz darted a glance at Ratchet, who was streaked with soot and hollering madly about something, though Jazz could barely hear. "Swoop!" he heard the medic's voice as if from a great distance. "Get Sideswipe out of the way!"

A shot of plasma spattered through the table where Jazz was pinned, nearly clipping him across the cheek, but then the shooting abruptly stopped. For a short, eerie moment, complete silence descended on the bay while everyone hesitated behind their respective barricades and waited to see what Sunstreaker would do next.

But it seemed all the fight had been taken out of the yellow warrior. "Sideswipe?" Jazz heard Sunstreaker say, voice strangely hollow against the silence, and at once Jazz realized that the yellow warrior had woken up.

"Sunstreaker not hurt Sideswipe," Jazz heard Swoop say, and when he stuck his head out, he saw the Dinobot standing more or less protectively in front of the inert red warrior.

The look on Sunstreaker's face was of complete dismay. His weapon hung forgotten from his hand. "I would never hurt Sideswipe," he breathed, his face confused and a little horrified that anyone would accuse him of harming his twin. He blinked, as if seeing his surroundings for the first time, but before he could say anything else, he crumpled to the ground as someone snapped off a final shot.

"That got 'im," Ironhide grumbled from behind one of the examination tables. He rose, dusting himself off. "Everybody ok?"

Growling, Ratchet pushed himself up from where he'd hidden and took a cursory look around. He didn't seem to like what he saw. "Well, thank Primus you guys got here before he obliterated the entire bay." He kicked at a chunk of rock. "What a mess."

"Come on, Sunshine," Trailerbreaker said with a grimace as he cuffed the yellow warrior's hands behind his back and hauled him to his feet. There, he swayed, completely supported by the big black Autobot. Trailerbreaker sighed. "Back to the brig for you, it seems."

"Guys, wait," Jazz protested, and Sunstreaker's optics locked onto him in mute appeal. It seemed the stun had robbed him of speech as well as movement, and now he hung from Trailbreaker's grip, helpless to defend himself. But Jazz understood. "He was dreaming," he said. "He didn't know what he was doing 'til Ratchet mentioned Sideswipe. Then he woke up. I saw it."

"Yeah, an' the moon's a hunk of cheese." Ironhide snorted. "That little yellow son of a snake always knows what he's doing. Let's go, boys."

Ironhide moved to shoulder Sunstreaker's other side, sharing the warrior's weight between himself and Trailbreaker as they began to drag him toward the door. Jazz took a step forward. "Wait. Ratchet," he turned back to the medic, "you know he was dreaming. Tell 'em."

Ratchet frowned, but made no move to intervene, as he obviously wanted rid of Sunstreaker as quickly and neatly as possible. "Yeah, he was dreaming," he said reluctantly, then narrowed his optics. "But he woke up long before he started tossing missiles around my bay, and that much I know for sure. Get him out of here."

"Ha!" Brawn barked a laugh as they made their way through the last of the rubble. "Dreaming, eh? Wait till the guys hear this. Ol' Sunshine's finally gone loony."

"Loon_ier_," Ironhide corrected, and the other two snickered.

Brawn said something else, but it was lost on Jazz as they disappeared through the door, and all the white Autobot could hear was their snide laughter as they hauled Sunstreaker down the corridor and away to the brig.

* * *

It was early the next morning when Prime finally called the council. For the first time in a long while, Jazz hadn't been able to shut down the previous night, and he'd finally given up and wandered outside, where he watched the stars slowly rotate across the sky until they finally faded and bled away into nothing as the sun came up to take back its rightful place. It was no comfort, though, and for the first time, Jazz didn't see its warm, golden glow, but saw instead the cold, cruel march of an uncaring orb, who was simply too caught up in its own strength to see the pale stars it was trampling away into nothing. Why he felt this way, he didn't know, and why it bothered him, he couldn't guess. He only knew that there was something terribly wrong, some terrible injustice, and though he couldn't quite put his finger on it, he knew that it was not something he could simply ignore, or it would keep him awake for some time to come.

Of course all this was about Sunstreaker, though he didn't understand it. Why should this whole affair get so completely under his skin? He wasn't really friends with Sunstreaker – not good friends, anyway – so why couldn't he let this go? What's more, why had it bothered him so much right from the start, even before he'd talked to the yellow Autobot?

Something was just not quite right.

So, it was with a bit of trepidation that Jazz let himself in through the back door of the conference room. Unable to put it off any longer, especially in light of Sunstreaker's most recent outburst, Prime had finally decided to put the council in motion so he could have the whole thing over and done with, and of course Jazz had been obliged to sit in. Prowl was there, too, as well as Ironhide and Ratchet. Nodding to each of them, Jazz took a seat and tried to ignore the heavy feeling in his gut. But over and over in his mind, though he tried to shake the image, he kept remembering the sight of the pale and dying stars.

Prime sighed. "Is everybody ready?" He didn't sound enthusiastic.

"Yup," Ironhide replied, and Prowl, Ratchet and Jazz each nodded.

Arranged behind a long table, Prime in the middle and flanked by two Autobots on each side, they formed what Jazz assumed was probably a fairly intimidating lineup. Not that anyone in this room likely cared, and not that anyone likely considered that Sunstreaker would be intimidated by any of them, though Jazz wasn't sure. Still, he kept to himself and let the proceedings begin without protest.

"Anybody have anything to say before we start?" Prime asked. He looked around, but was met by a wall of faces which were just as unenthusiastic as his own. "Alright then," he said, and gestured to Trailbreaker, who was waiting by the main entrance, "admit him."

The door opened, and a very sullen Sunstreaker was handed over to Trailbreaker, who escorted him to the center of the room, where he deposited the yellow warrior to stand in front of the council, before departing to wait in the hall. Hands shackled behind his back, all his weapons removed, Sunstreaker regarded his superiors with an ugly, defiant glower.

"Sunstreaker," Optimus Prime began, "you are being brought before the council today to be judged for your violent actions toward the Autobot Gears, and for your gross misconduct yesterday in the medical bay. You are being charged with eight counts of assault, which include extreme hostility toward the Autobots Gears, Ratchet, Jazz, Swoop, Trailbreaker, Ironhide, Brawn and Sideswipe, and one count of aggravated assault, which nearly led to the death of the Autobot Gears. Do you understand the charges?"

Sunstreaker didn't answer right away. At the mention of his brother's name, all the hostility had drained from his face, leaving him to look vacant and a little lost. "I would never hurt Sideswipe," he said plainly, and as Sunstreaker met Prime's gaze, Jazz almost thought he saw a hint of well-hidden pain behind the yellow warrior's optics.

Prime, however, didn't seem to notice, and he repeated himself as though Sunstreaker hadn't spoken, "Do you understand the charges?"

And if Jazz thought Sunstreaker was defeated, he'd been sorely mistaken. Any trace of vulnerability vanished in a snap as the yellow warrior's optics flashed with irritation. "Of course I understand."

"And how do you plead?" the Autobot commander pressed.

"I did not assault Sideswipe," the yellow warrior repeated, digging his heels in. "Matter of fact, I didn't assault anyone but Gears. Him, I assaulted, and I assaulted him thoroughly, the little shit. Is that what you want to hear? You gonna to toss me down the Hole again now?"

In unison, the entire panel stared at Sunstreaker in surprise, and Jazz realized that if the yellow warrior had hoped for any lenience from the council or from Optimus Prime, he'd just pretty well shot it all to hell. Primus, he had a mouth on him. Could he not keep it shut for five minutes running?

Obviously more than a little angry, Optimus Prime glared at Sunstreaker, and Jazz could all but hear him counting in his head. And he'd have to count pretty high, because it was obvious that Sunstreaker was not only disinterested in anything resembling an apology, he was gunning for the worst possible sentence he could earn. Except, Jazz didn't think he realized what the worst sentence would be. Permanent stasis was little better than death.

"So you plead," Prime said finally, voice tightly controlled, "not guilty to the eight counts of assault, but guilty to the one count of aggravated assault, correct?"

Sunstreaker gave him a level look. "Yes."

Prime straightened. "Then this is your one chance to explain yourself. Can you offer any defense for your actions?"

Sunstreaker shifted his weight, looking a little nonplussed. He hitched one of his shoulders as though it were stiff, and Jazz wondered how long he'd been in those shackles, though he suspected that it had most likely been all night. The yellow warrior tilted his head, mouth slightly open as though trying to phrase what he was about to say, and it struck Jazz for the billionth time how perfect the warrior's face was. His vanity was not unfounded. But it was troubling, because Jazz had always instinctively felt that a face that perfect should harbor a matching soul, and no matter how many times that thought was proven wrong, it always surprised Jazz to see the ugly temper just beneath the angelic contours of Sunstreaker's face. There was just a wrongness about it. But he had no time for further pondering, as the warrior was finally speaking up. "There is," he said at length, "no defense."

"So you regret your actions, then?" Prime asked, relief threatening to creep into his voice.

But it was quickly squashed. "No. I just have no defense to offer that you'll accept. No matter what I say, you're going to condemn me, so just go ahead and get on with it." Sunstreaker stared at the commander evenly, his tone flat.

Prime narrowed his optics. "Then you have neither defense nor regret for your actions toward Gears?"

"No." Sunstreaker hitched a shoulder again, face contorted with miserable irritation. "The little whiner annoyed the living slag out of me, and so I made sure he wouldn't do it again, at least not for a long time. Look, it's not like I killed him. If I'd wanted to do that, you can be sure he'd be dead and not just laying around the med bay and bitching about how sorry he feels for himself."

"He hasn't been online yet to bitch about anything," Ratchet put in dryly, and Sunstreaker slid his cold gaze over toward the medic.

"I do my job well," he said simply, and Jazz felt a tiny chill at the complete lack of mercy he saw in the warrior's optics.

"Your job is not to fill my bay with Autobots!" Ratchet shot back.

"Well, at least he's _in_ your bay," Sunstreaker said blandly. "He's not dead."

"He almost died," the medic growled.

"No he didn't," Sunstreaker sneered. "I stuck to structural damage. I didn't touch a single internal system."

Ratchet smacked the table. "_Only _structural damage? Are you a surgeon now? Do you even know what that means? The trauma alone –"

"I know enough about the Transformer anatomy to know exactly what I'm doing," Sunstreaker interjected cooly. That, Jazz noted, was probably true. Years of artfully maiming and killing would teach him that.

"That's enough," Prime said, and both warrior and medic turned their attention to the commander, who was staring coldly at the yellow warrior before him. Sunstreaker stood ready, as though expecting another volley of hard words, and formulating his responses even before they came. It made sense, Jazz thought, that a being whose entire purpose in life was war, would use hostility as his defense when his back was up against the wall. And Sunstreaker's back was definitely against a wall, with the command element closing in on him like a pack of dogs. It almost made Jazz feel sorry for the yellow warrior, seeing him standing there with his hands tied behind his back, legs braced and shoulders hunched, as though actually expecting a physical assault, and steeling himself for the worst.

Not that Jazz's sense of pity held up for long. Sunstreaker saw to that. "This is a load of crap," the yellow warrior spoke up, when the tense silence had dragged out too long. "I don't see anyone pissed off at Gears for following me around like a little gnat and asking for a beating. And for another thing, there's not a one of you pissed off about that freak show yesterday in the med bay, when Ironhide there and his two buddies came in and started opening fire on everyone. How come that's suddenly my fault, too?"

"Hey, pal," Ironhide jabbed a finger in Sunstreaker's direction, "how 'bout that missile you stuffed in our faces, even 'fore we got into medical?"

"What missile?" Sunstreaker snapped.

"What missle?" Ironhide repeated, faceplate incredulous. "Yer tellin' me you don't recall saying 'hello' at point blank range with four hundred and fifty pounds of sunshine and roses?"

Sunstreaker scowled, optics narrowed. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Why, you lyin' little shit," Ironhide accused, half-rising out of his seat.

"Wait." Prime put a hand on his security officer's shoulder, lowering him back into his seat, before returning his attention to the yellow warrior. "Sunstreaker," he asked, carefully keeping his tone neutral, "are you honestly telling us that you have no recollection of firing off one of your missiles while you were in medical?"

Sunstreaker offered Prime a wary look. "I don't remember anything but waking up to see that idiot Swoop telling me not to hurt Sideswipe, as if I would, and then I hit the floor. Somebody stunned me, they tied my hands up like this, took all my weapons, and dumped me in the brig all night. Now how the hell is all that my fault?"

"Jazz?" Prime turned his head for a clarification. "You were there."

"Sunny shot off a missile alright," Jazz confirmed, and watched Sunstreaker's face darken. "But I don't think he was awake when he did it, so maybe he really doesn't remember."

"What do you mean, he wasn't awake?" Prime asked. "What was he doing shut down in medical?"

"Well," Ratchet explained in Jazz's stead, "remember when you sent Sideswipe down to me yesterday? Seems he hasn't cycled down in two weeks because of the nightmares he's been having, and I think Sunstreaker here is having the same trouble. Thing is, where Sideswipe can't stay shut down, Sunstreaker may have trouble coming back online."

"Which means?" Prime asked, a little confused.

"Which means," the medic explained reluctantly, "that it is possible that Sunstreaker truly wasn't cognizant yesterday when he started tossing missiles and electron-pulses around medical."

"And is that your opinion?" Prime asked.

The medic hesitated, his frustration with Sunstreaker obviously battling with his sense of professionalism. At length, Ratchet gave the yellow warrior a dark look, and answered the commander, "I'll say it's possible, and that's all I'm saying."

"Jazz?" the commander turned to the black and white Autobot. "Is that your opinion as well?"

Jazz nodded. "Like I said, Prime, I don't think Sunny knew what he was doing."

"And Ironhide?"

Ironhide had been studying Sunstreaker with a sour look, mouth pressed in an angry line, but at the sound of his name, he turned his attention to the Autobot commander. "An' like _I_ said, Prime, that little yellow bastard always knows what he's doin'. An' I say he was awake, sure as the day is long."

Prime narrowed his optics, face skeptical as he sat back. "One yay, one nay, and one undecided. Prowl, what do you think?"

All optics turned to the tactician, who was gazing thoughtfully at the yellow warrior before him. Slowly, in his ages-old methodical way, he gathered his thoughts and asked in a quiet voice, "Sunstreaker, what did you dream?"

Instantly all heads turned to the yellow warrior, who had been caught completely off guard, and now stood gazing back at Prowl as though all the wind had been taken out of his proverbial sails. Mouth slightly open, head tilted in wary bewilderment, he regarded the tactician for a long moment before answering simply, "I dreamed about the Hole."

"And that bothered you," Prowl stated without skipping a beat.

Sunstreaker nodded. "Yes."

"Why?"

The yellow warrior blinked. All the meanness had eased from his face, leaving him to look a little unsure of himself. "I don't know," he said lamely.

Prowl wasn't convinced, but some innate brand of wisdom steered him away from making the conversation into an argument. He asked, changing the subject a little, "Did you have these…dreams…while you were in the Hole?"

Sunstreaker frowned, eyeing Prowl skeptically. "Yes."

"And what were your dreams about?" the tactician asked smoothly.

Sunstreaker opened his mouth, then closed it, face troubled as he considered what he wanted to say, and what he didn't. He looked down at the floor, and Jazz watched, fascinated, as a parade of barely-hidden emotion flitted like shadows across the warrior's normally well-guarded face. Gaining control of himself again, Sunstreaker looked up at Prowl and shrugged, shaking his head as if at a loss. "Things. I don't know."

"Sunstreaker," Prowl asked, seeming to change the subject again, "did anyone ask you why you fired your weaponry in medical yesterday, before putting you in the brig?"

Sunstreaker shook his head. "No."

"Did anyone tell you why you were being put in the brig?"

"No," the warrior replied again, though his voice was drowned out by Ironhide's angry protest.

"That's a crock of old parts," the security officer growled. "I didn't need to tell him he'd shot up med bay, and half the corridor to boot. He was there."

"But it is reasonable to assume," Prowl put in evenly, "that if he has been having trouble with 'dreams', as Ratchet has confirmed, it is possible that he was indeed unaware of his actions yesterday. That, however, is not my point. My point is that no one asked him."

Everyone stared at Prowl, who gazed blandly back, and it was just dawning on Jazz why all this whole mess had bothered him so much when Ironhide slammed a fist on the table and interrupted his thoughts. "I didn't need to ask him nothin'," the old warrior asserted. "I see someone shootin' up this place and actin' like a lunatic, then he can damn well spend the night by hisself in the brig, chained up and with no apologies from me. An' that's that."

"Is that true?" Prowl slid a calm gaze toward Sunstreaker, who had been watching the exchange with no small amount of bafflement. "Did you spend the night in chains?"

Sunstreaker nodded, darting a glance to Ironhide and back to Prowl. He shrugged his shoulders and tipped his head toward his tied hands. "I didn't know why I was in there 'till Prime just charged me."

Ironhide bristled, and would have said more in his defense, had Prime not cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Very well. Mistakes happen, and I believe Ironhide can be forgiven in light of what he perceived as Sunstreaker's violent actions. Whether Sunstreaker was aware of his actions or not, will be decided by vote. Now, Prowl," he gave Prowl a level look, "what is your point?"

"My point," Prowl replied, "is that I find it both illogical and unreasonable to make a decision regarding this Autobot's case when we have neither considered nor gathered all of the available facts."

"Meaning?" Prime pressed.

Prowl held the commander's gaze. "Yesterday, Sideswipe presented us with an excellent point."

Prime raised a brow, caught off guard. "Which is?"

"Well," the tactician said, "he is quite correct. We do pay them to be violent."

For the second time, everyone stared at Prowl for a long moment before Ironhide broke in. "What in the crazy hell is that s'posed to mean?"

"Yesterday," Prowl explained, "Sideswipe – your brother –" he nodded to Sunstreaker, making a point to include him in the conversation, "asserted that he and Sunstreaker were, for all practical purposes, hired into this unit because of their natural battle instincts. Is that not correct?"

Thoughtful, Prime nodded, though by the look on his face, Jazz judged he was a little wary about where the conversation was going.

"Everyone," Prowl explained for the benefit of everyone else, "is here for a purpose. When Iacon high command gave Prime his commission as commander of this unit, his first move was to appoint you, Ironhide, as security chief. Next was me as tactician, and then Jazz as officer in charge of special operations. Ratchet, you rounded us out as chief medic, and we five became the skeleton upon which this unit was created."

Jazz smiled mistily. "Yeah, I remember those days. We were all pretty gung-ho."

Prowl briefly returned his smile. "We were. But do you remember what happened next? Iacon began to fill our allotment of personnel. They sent us good Autobots, and each skilled at his job, but we began to worry about the kind of Autobots we were getting. Do you recall, Prime?"

At this, Prime nodded slowly, as though beginning to see where Prowl was going. "Too many 'civilians'. Clerks and merchants and factory workers and the like. Most of them were rushed through the Iacon War Academy and then thrown into units."

"Like ours," Prowl nodded. "You were concerned that so many of our numbers were untried, so you came to me with a requisition one day. Do you remember what you asked for?"

Optimus sat back in his chair, fingers tapping his armrests as he favored Sunstreaker with a thoughtful look. "A pair of brothers, top of the Academy's combat division."

"Right," Prowl said, turning to look at Sunstreaker as well. "Top of the Academy and known for being slightly less than scrupulous in battle as well as in their off time. I cautioned you to consider your requisition before submitting it to Iacon, but you said they were exactly what our unit was missing. Do you remember what you said?"

"I said," Prime admitted frankly, still looking at the yellow warrior, "that we needed some 'nasty' in the ranks."

"And that's exactly what they are," Prowl replied.

"Yes, Prowl," Prime sighed, waving his hand as though to dismiss what Prowl was saying, and turning to face the tactician, "I get your point. They're some of our more volatile members, and I can make some special allowances for that. Some. But that doesn't change the fact that one of them just tore apart one of my recon specialists, while neither other one seems to see anything wrong with that. That cannot go undealt with, no matter what their past contributions might have been."

"Even," Prowl returned, gaze calm and steady, "if that contribution has been to accomplish tasks that we as Autobots have been either too moral, or too interested in self-preservation, to undertake ourselves?"

A long look passed between the Autobot commander and his lieutenant, and though their faces remained calm, Jazz felt an uncomfortable kind of tension rising. He wanted to fidget, or better yet, edge out of the room, but since that certainly wasn't feasible, he tried to just sit still and hope he wasn't noticed.

"Are you saying," Prime broke the silence, "that I signed them on to do our dirty work?"

Prowl answered without skipping a beat. "Did you?" His optics were bland as ever, and Jazz wondered how he could keep such a straight face in light of the accusation he seemed to be making.

Prime did not answer right away. Instead, he regarded Prowl evenly, thoughts all but churning visibly behind his optics, as Jazz began to realize that Prowl might not be making an empty accusation after all. "Woah," Ratchet said, making Jazz jump a little, "What, uh, exactly are we saying here?"

"All I am saying," Prowl explained smoothly, "is that when Sideswipe said we signed him and his brother into this unit because of what they are, he was right. They _are_ our most prolific front-line fighters. And I am saying this simply to point out that perhaps we need to reconsider how to deal with Sunstreaker, in light of what we ask of him."

"Are you suggesting," Prime asked, a little incredulous, and obviously still angry with Sunstreaker, "that because we so often send Sunstreaker into the 'really dangerous shit,' as Sideswipe put it, that we should just turn a blind eye to his violence on the homefront?"

"I said nothing about turning a blind eye. In fact," Prowl said, turning to regard Sunstreaker once again, "I believe that has been the problem all along."

Silence fell once more, and Sunstreaker, who was by this time looking extremely confused, stared back at the panel as though it were about to burst forth into a carnival of boisterously dancing pink elephants. He shifted his feet, brows knitted in incredible, uncomfortable confusion, and Jazz suddenly had to stifle a snicker, as he began to see the funny part of the situation just easing its head over the top of its foxhole. Jazz grinned, and hid his mouth behind his hands, grateful for the visor that hid his optics, as he realized that the mighty, supremely arrogant Sunstreaker was about to go down in flames, and it wasn't because of any punishment or chastisement or guilt trip. It was because Prowl was coming perilously close to showing him kindness.

"How we deal with life," Prowl said in his quiet voice, "is largely dependent upon our programming. Some, like Hound and Beachcomber, were programmed to love sniffing about the hither and thither of this world, and because of that programming, have come to possess an almost endless capability for patience and understanding. Their natural love for discovering the things of the world has given them an innate ability to extend that goodwill to the beings around them. It is difficult for them to make war, and though they do it bravely, it is not their forte.

"There are those, however," he continued with a look toward Sunstreaker, "who have been programmed for war. Their minds have been shaped toward aggression, in the small ways and big ways, and when they are presented with a 'fight or flight' situation, they always choose the fight, because that is how they were programmed. It does not matter if they are on the battlefield or off; they are warriors, and they face every encounter as a warrior would: aggressively, decisively, and immediately. It is hard for them to learn the kind of patience and longsuffering that comes so naturally to others, just as it is hard for those others, who were programmed toward more peaceful bents, to learn to make war.

"Now," he placed both hands on the table, palms down, "we all have a responsibility for our actions, as well as to live up to the Autobot way of peace and respect, no matter what our programming. For some, that task is easy, while for others, the job of extending patience and kindness to others is nothing short of daunting. Which leads me to ask you all this: If we have expected Sunstreaker to shoulder the lion's share of the burden of battle, if we constantly thrust him, along with his brother, out into the front ranks and ask of them more than we ask of most anyone else, then what gives us the right to correct them for continuing to live by their battle instincts on the days when there is no war to fight? If they are programmed for savagery, and we have not taught them otherwise, then how can we ask them to react with peace and temperance? In short, gentlemen," he said with a look toward the yellow warrior, "how can we demand mercy of him to whom we refuse to show mercy?"

"Mercy?" Ironhide snorted, and eyed Prowl as though the tactician had lost his mind. "That little yellow bastard doesn't deserve mercy, and what's more, you ain't makin' no sense."

But he was making sense. Jazz was beginning to understand, but before he could say a word, Prowl responded by asking, "And if mercy is not modeled now, when it is least deserved and most needed, what can this young Autobot ever learn of it?"

Frowning, Ironhide stared at Prowl and looked as though he wished to make a dazzling retort, but seemed to have no idea how. Patiently Prowl waited, and when no remark came from the security officer, Prowl returned his attention to the yellow warrior and asked in his quiet way, "Sunstreaker, your brother nearly died, and for five days you didn't know if he would survive surgery. Where were you at that time?"

"In the Autobot lounge," Sunstreaker replied, face wary.

"And who was with you?" Prowl continued.

Sunstreaker's mouth twitched, and he darted a glance at the floor before admitting uncomfortably, "No one."

"No one?" Prowl repeated with mock surprise. "You mean to tell me that you sat in the lounge, in full view of every Autobot in the Ark, while your twin brother was dying, and no one stayed with you?"

"Well," Sunstreaker shrugged a shoulder toward the security officer, "Ironhide stopped by. And Trailbreaker."

"Yeah," Ironhide broke in, "I asked him if he was alright. 'Breaker did, too." He stared at Prowl, as if waiting for some release from the guilt Prowl was busily applying to everyone in the room, and when he got none, he slammed a fist down on the table. "Aw, that ain't fair. You can't expect the Autobots to cozy up to Sunstreaker, not with him bein' such an ass an' all. Hell, half the Autobots are afraid of him anyway, an' rightly so."

"Oh," Prowl nodded quietly, "so then, I suppose I should have mercy on you for abandoning one of your fellow Autobots just when he needed you most."

Mouth open, Ironhide blinked.

Turning to Optimus, Prowl made his plea, "Prime, I know that Sunstreaker's actions toward Gears must not go unpunished, both for his sake and for the sake of all of the other Autobots, who will be looking for justice. But listen, I also know that all the while Sunstreaker sat in the lounge, waiting to hear that Sideswipe had died, nobody went near him. Not you, not me, not Jazz or Ratchet. A few Autobots walked by to say a few words, but in essence, that Autobot sat alone at that table for five days, and we left him there, abandoned and utterly without support. Don't you think that the stress he endured over those days must have contributed to his actions toward Gears? Some may say that a true Autobot would never do such a thing, and that his poor temper over the years has earned him his lack of friends. But I say that a true friend shows himself to be friendly, just as a true Autobot would never abandon his own, and if not one of us would befriend a grieving brother, then which one of us can dare label ourselves as 'friend', or give ourselves the righteous designation of 'Autobot'? What's more, which one of us can say that we have shown mercy to this very one who stands before us for his own lack of mercy? For myself, I say let us be blameless before we blame, and careful lest we mistake abandonment for discipline. To discipline, gentlemen, means to teach, and if we are to teach this Autobot anything, let us teach him through example, and through mercy, and through understanding. Because I believe that it has been we who have unwittingly, or perhaps more accurately, witlessly, contributed to this Autobot's regrettable actions in the first place."

Prowl sat back in his chair as silence settled over the room. Ironhide, looking utterly confounded, merely stared at the table in thought, jaw cocked to one side, while Ratchet frowned and stared at the floor. Even Optimus looked a little unbalanced, and sat staring at nothing while he processed all of Prowl's accusations. But as for Jazz, he only felt a sense of relief, because suddenly all of his discomfort made sense. Even from the start, when he'd been walking down the corridor toward the twins' quarters, he'd been dreading a confrontation with the yellow warrior _not_ because of what Sunstreaker might say or do, but because of Jazz's own guilt. Jazz hadn't wanted to look into Sunstreaker's face, because he'd been afraid of the pain he knew he'd find there, and of his own guilt over leaving the yellow warrior to face it alone. Oh sure, Jazz wasn't the only one. And yeah, it was true that Sunny didn't really deserve anyone's sympathy, what with how rotten he usually treated everybody, and especially in light of what he'd done to Gears. But, Jazz couldn't help but wonder, how rotten would Sunstreaker be if everyone wasn't always rotten right back to him?

It was a cycle, and to be honest, Jazz simply had no recollection of who had started it. Had it been Sunstreaker who had antagonized someone when the twins first came aboard, or had someone pushed the yellow warrior's buttons and simply gotten a reaction? But regardless of who had started all of this hating, how many years would it take before someone broke the cycle and countered the hate with mercy?

Jazz looked at Sunstreaker. Hands wrenched behind his back, armor dented and scuffed from literal weeks of mishandling, optics pale with miserable discomfort, he looked as weary as Jazz had ever seen him be. He still seemed to stand as though his back were against the wall, and should anyone berate him now, Jazz was sure it would only inspire the yellow warrior to volley back all the venom he could muster. But should someone actually recognize the pain that roiled beneath his ill temper, and should anyone actually offer him kindness…

Ironhide got up with a sudden, decided jerk, and came around the table toward Sunstreaker. He turned the yellow warrior about and unshackled him quickly, as though afraid he might change his own mind. Rubbing his wrists, Sunstreaker turned back to face the panel, and offered a weak smile of thanks to Ironhide, though the security chief merely grumbled and turned to go back to his seat.

"Sunstreaker," Prime said at length, "it seems we have been in error, and that we owe you an apology."

Jazz fully expected some smug response from Sunstreaker, but, surprisingly, it seemed that Prowl's words had had their impact, and now the yellow warrior stood quietly, looking lost and little unsure of himself. He blinked back at the Autobot commander, all trace of defiance gone from him.

"We do ask much of you," Prime continued, "and have given you little in return. It is easy to forget sometimes that you have no auxiliary task, and that your presence – as well as Sideswipe's – on the front lines, often puts you in more consistent jeopardy than most of the other Autobots. For that, I can extend my appreciation and I can tell you that I, as well as every other Autobot, am in your debt." That, Jazz noted, was true. Both Sideswipe and Sunstreaker had saved the lives of nearly every Autobot on Earth, in most cases multiple times over, and it was easy to take them for granted, especially when it was assumed that they would be the first Autobots into a fight, and the last ones out during cleanup. It was their job, and what's more, they didn't complain. But that didn't mean they never got tired, and it certainly didn't mean that they were ignorant of their expendability, due to their lack of auxiliary skills. They were warriors, from beginning to end, and Jazz wondered suddenly if they sometimes found the front lines to be a lonesome place.

"I also know," Prime was saying, "that it must have been difficult to deal with Sideswipe's near-death, and probably still is, and I can only say that I wish I had been able to…be there. I am sorry I was not."

"Yeah, me too," Jazz chimed in. "I was just plain dumb."

"Me too," Ironhide grumbled in a barely audible voice.

"Well, I _had_ to kick you out of med bay," Ratchet defended himself stoutly, "I couldn't concentrate with you in there, looking like someone just ran over your best friend with an eighteen-wheeler. My hands were shaking, for Primus' sake, and I wasn't about to perform surgery on your brother with my fingers twitching all over creation." He sighed sharply, optics softening as he looked like he wanted to say more, but he kept it to himself.

Sunstreaker was undone. Visibly shocked by Prowl's defense of him, and with no harsh words to bristle under, he seemed suddenly to have nothing to say. Quietly, he stared at the floor in front of him, head bent meekly, fists clenching and unclenching themselves as he worked his sore wrists, and when at last he looked up, it was with the dawn of gratitude beginning to light his features. Almost timidly, as though expecting to be rebuffed at any moment, he sought Ratchet's optics and said in a small voice, "Thanks for fixing Sideswipe."

The medic smiled, and for the first time in a long, long while, the two Autobots looked at each other in peaceful accord. "Anytime," Ratchet replied.

"There is still the vote left to be done," Prime spoke up, businesslike again, "as well as the matter of punishment. Does anyone else wish to speak, or shall we bring this matter to a close?" He looked at everyone, Sunstreaker included, but no one seemed to want to say anything, especially the yellow warrior, who stood again with his gaze on the floor. "Very well," Prime continued, "as to the matter of assault in the medical bay, let us vote on whether Sunstreaker was unaware of his actions, or whether he was aware, and is therefore guilty. All who vote guilty, raise your hand."

No one moved. Everyone but Prowl looked around, waiting for someone else to raise their hand first, but at length it seemed no one wanted to, and so everyone finally came to silent agreement, and stayed their votes.

"And all who vote not guilty, raise your hand."

Jazz's hand went up first, followed by Prowl's, which surprised Jazz, since he knew the tactician was only making a guess, and Prowl hated to guess. The tactician hadn't been there, and had no idea whether Sunstreaker had been truly aware of himself or not, and so Jazz could only fall to wondering why Prowl would back the warrior so solidly. But back him he did, and it left Jazz with the feeling that Prowl put quite a bit more stock in Sunstreaker than Jazz had realized. It took a lot of trust for the tactician to vote blindly. Ratchet's hand went up next, and then Prime's. Optics narrow, Ironhide stared at Sunstreaker for a long moment before saying finally, "Abstain."

"Four not-guilty, one abstain," Prime tallied. "On the eight counts of assault, Sunstreaker, you are found not guilty. On the one count of aggravated assault, however, you have already admitted your guilt. Does anyone wish to contend the matter?" He was met with silence, and so said, "Then I find you guilty on the count of aggravated assault, for which the maximum punishment is permanent stasis."

"Permanent shut-down?" Sunstreaker snapped his head up, face flushed with a worry that bordered on fear, and Jazz knew he was already reliving some nightmare. Is that what stasis would be like, Jazz wondered? Would the mind simply float on the skin of the subconscious, forever subject to whatever dreams and nightmares might come? Jazz shuddered, and hoped that Prowl's plea for mercy had done its work, because by the look on Sunstreaker's face, it was obvious the yellow warrior was thinking he might be sentenced to hell.

"Perhaps, however," Prime was saying, "in this case, and given the circumstances leading up to the crime, the maximum sentence is unnecessary."

Sunstreaker's whole body relaxed, then immediately tensed again. "Will you put me in the Hole?" he asked, and Jazz was surprised at the strain in his voice. He must have been trying very hard to keep his composure despite his fatigue and his obvious fear of being shut away in the dark.

"No," Prime answered, "on one condition." He stared into the warrior's anxious face, without even a hint of compassion to light his own. "First, you will sincerely apologize to Gears, and when I say sincerely, I mean that you will have to convince _me_ of your remorse, as I will be standing there when you do this. And secondly, you will submit yourself, without a word or even a look of complaint, to whatever punishment we set for you. If you do not fulfill these two things, even to the last day of your punishment, you will go directly to the Hole for another two weeks, and then your term of punishment will begin all over again. Do you understand?"

Jazz's optics widened a bit behind his visor, and if the room hadn't been so quiet, he would have let out a long whistle. Prime must still be really mad to set such steep requirements in front of the warrior. For anyone else, it wouldn't be so bad, but to ask Sunstreaker to meekly submit himself to anything without complaint was like asking the ocean not to be wet. But to his credit, the yellow warrior merely bobbed his head and lowered his optics away from the commander's gaze. "Yes, Prime," he agreed quietly.

"Now," Prime said, "you will be dismissed to your quarters while we discuss the terms of your punishment. You need to have no escort, but should you disobey a single order from this moment until the end of your punishment, should you even scowl at another Autobot, you will be sent to the Hole. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Prime."

"Good," the commander nodded, and gestured toward the door. "You are dismissed."

"Yes, Prime." The warrior brought himself to attention, did an about-face, and carried himself to the door with all the dignity of a well-disciplined soldier. Jazz wasn't fooled, however, and watched for a hint of Sunstreaker's usual sullen swagger, but to his surprise, he saw none. Not that the warrior's temper had been squashed, however; Jazz knew it would only be a matter of time before his mean streak would show its ugly face again, and begin to wreak its special brand of holy havoc among all deserving Decepticons and Autobots alike. But for now it seemed that something had gotten through to the warrior, and Jazz mentally gave Prowl credit for seeing what no one else had seen. As the door slid open and Sunstreaker sidled through, he canted his gaze back toward the tactician, and for a glimmer of a moment, Jazz saw a look of vast relief on the warrior's face before he disappeared through the doorway and was gone. As for Prowl, the tactician merely returned the warrior's gaze with that look of his that saw past the surface of things, and he smiled a small, satisfied smile as he sat back in his chair, and clasped his hands contentedly before him.

* * *

Sunstreaker lay in his recharge bunk, staring into the semi-dark and drifting. He could see the outline of Sideswipe's hand hanging down from the bunk above his as his brother slept, and it gave Sunstreaker some measure of comfort to see him there.

It seemed the consensus of the 'punishment committee' had been not only to use up all of Sunstreaker's free time with a meaningless assortment of drudgery and humiliating tasks, they had also decided that he would benefit from almost constant interaction with the other Autobots. No peaceful ditch-digging for him, it would seem. No, he also found he would have to endure the almost constant wheedling chatter of at least one other Autobot as he toiled through the days of his punishment. Sixty days of it, too. Sixty days! Primus, did Optimus think he could really keep up this nice-guy façade for sixty days? Sheesh, it was like he almost wanted Sunstreaker to get crammed in the Hole again. Either that, or the commander really did have a sadistic side, and planned on entertaining himself by watching the slow and hideous torture that would inevitably be inflicted on Sunstreaker by way of Very Annoying People. And Sunstreaker just didn't know how long he could hold out.

Still…He looked up at Sideswipe again before shifting his gaze to the play of soft lights across the ceiling. That, too, was a comfort. It was only light from various keypads and the glow of a single digital clock, but it was light, and that was all  
Sunstreaker cared. It was light, soothing his jangled nerves into a near-sleep, and for some reason he almost felt he really could shut down, and might just sleep till dawn, with no dreams along the way.

He still didn't know what to make of Prowl, or why the tactician had defended him. It was surreal, like seeing the universe being turned inside-out, to watch the Autobots' very logic-minded tactician defend Sunstreaker's indefensible position. As much as he would have protested, Sunstreaker knew that he'd been guilty, and that there was no reason that anyone should give him anything but the worst kind of punishment for what he had done. He didn't regret mauling Gears, not really, but there was that part of him that nagged at the back of his mind, telling him that there was a better option than violence, and ever since Prowl had made his speech…well, that nagging voice had grown just a bit louder.

Mercy.

Sunstreaker shifted in his bunk, settling himself deeper into the pad beneath him. Why should Prowl have shown him mercy? It made no sense, given that the tactician always viewed life through the black and white outlines of regulation. And according to regulation, what Sunstreaker had done to Gears should have been met with swift and unbending punishment. So Prowl, of all Autobots, should have been the first one to calmly and cooly bring the letter of the law down over Sunstreaker's head like a guillotine, condemning him without remorse or even a trace of hesitation. Prowl simply did not make emotional decisions; in fact, in his way, he was as cooly ruthless as Sunstreaker himself, except instead of a weapon, Prowl wielded the black and white lines of truth and untruth, right and wrong, obedience and disobedience as he held each and every Autobot under the tight reins of regulation.

Yet, Prowl had shown mercy. Why? Why mercy, why for Sunstreaker? It unnerved the yellow warrior, it shook him like nothing had in years and years, and more than any speech Prime could have given Sunstreaker, it shamed him.

Sunstreaker frowned as the smallest hint of sorrow began to bleed through him. Prowl's mercy had shamed him, and Sunstreaker was simply not used to feeling things like honest, well-deserved shame. It was new to him, and he would have to take time to process it, but at the very least, he knew that his upcoming apology to Gears would not be so difficult as it would have been previously. Because there was that small, nagging part of him that truly was sorry, and that knew better than to harm another Autobot, and that made him pause and consider that he actually was capable of being the kind of mech Optimus Prime wanted him to be.

Immediately, his old nature kicked against the thought of being wrong. Gears had annoyed him, after all. But the protest his mean streak was putting up really wasn't very strong, as the effect of Prowl's words still lingered over Sunstreaker like a shaft of sunlight. Mercy. He still didn't understand why the tactician, of all Autobots, had chosen to show him such a thing, and made him feel undone, because he simply had no defense against kindness. He felt as though Prowl had looked into the very core of him, and had seen him for what he was, and it made Sunstreaker feel as exposed as if he'd broken down and blathered about every fear and nightmare he'd harbored over the last several weeks. But, it also made him feel as though someone finally _saw _him, and for some reason, that comforted him enough that all the tension had left his body, and he felt not weary, but truly and blissfully tired.

Almost against his will, he began the process of powering down. With a last look at the lights, Sunstreaker closed his optics and allowed himself to drift, unafraid, toward a dark and enveloping peace. But not before offering up a quick thought of thanks for undeserved grace, for a chance at redemption, and for not having to life out his life alone.


	3. Safekeeping

The hot, singing slice of Sunstreaker's energy sword whistled by as Mirage ducked and whirled, parrying with a backstroke. He barely caught Sunstreaker's own backslice as the yellow warrior spun on his heel and changed grips, pressing an attack when by all rights, Mirage should have had him on the defensive. Biting his lip, Mirage swore, and redoubled his efforts, not that they did much good, as Sunstreaker methodically blocked and pressed, blocked and pressed. It was as though the yellow warrior were playing with him, Mirage found himself thinking, much to his disgust, and as the chime signaled the end of the round, he offered a cursory bow, backed into his own corner, and glowered while he collected himself.

"C'mon, 'Raj," he felt Hound's friendly slap on his arm. "Wake up out there." Much to Mirge's dismay, a rather enthusiastic crowd had gathered to watch the sparring match, and most were clustered on the Autobot spy's side of the ring, cheering and hoping to indulge in some well-deserved vindication. Truth be told, most 'Bots were a bit frustrated with Sunstreaker of late, not to mention a little disgruntled with the 'slap-on-the-wrist' punishment the yellow warrior had gotten after what he'd done to Gears, and now the 'Bots were hoping to see Mirage dish out a bit of humiliation in Sunny's direction.

"I'm trying," Mirage grunted, and shifted his shoulders, attempting to take Hound's advice and wake his body up.

"Well, try harder," Smokescreen piped up. "We wanna see you hand some yellow skidplate to that jerk."

"Yeah!" Cliffjumper pitched in. "He ain't nothin'!"

_Ain't nothin', my boron compressor,_ Mirage grumbled to himself as he prepared for round three. Most 'Bots there were just having a bit of over-zealous fun, using the match as a harmless outlet for their anti-Sunstreaker sentiments. But there were some 'Bots for whom the match was their hope for some real, down-and-dirty payback, and Mirage could tell they were hoping to see Sunstreaker hurt and humiliated. Which bothered him on two counts: first, Mirage was sort of what some might consider an actual friend to Sunstreaker, (if such a thing were actually either tolerable or possible, outside of brotherhood), and second, he had no chance in hell of beating the yellow warrior.

Which was what bothered him now. The chime sounded, and Mirage entered the ring once again, wishing desperately that the other Autobots would just go away. He didn't really mind sparring with Sunstreaker; in fact, he often relished the chance, since most of the other Autobots couldn't come close to providing a challenge for Mirage's considerable athletic skills, and Mirage did quite like a challenge. But that didn't mean he liked humiliation, or the looks of reproach he knew he would earn when he failed to either harm or humiliate the yellow warrior. Mirage's skills were considerable, but he was honest enough to admit that they were no match for the raw, feral focus of Sunstreaker's talents. Mirage was a mech of impeccable culture and breeding, for whom sparring was natural and pleasurable sport; Sunstreaker was a savage, plain and simple. The point of which, of course, was lost on the other 'Bots, who were now cheering lustily as Mirage stepped forward and began to circle.

Eyeing the yellow warrior opposite him, Mirage attempted what he hoped was a gentlemanly smile, and what he suspected came off more like an unhappy grimace. "You ready to stop messing about?" the blue and white Autobot asked playfully of the warrior, hoping to interject some levity into the situation before it grew into a true grudge match, with him as the hapless pawn in the middle, getting bludgeoned to death.

Sunstreaker narrowed his optics to glinting slits, blue slashes against his perfect face, and, his hopes sinking like lead through his internals, Mirage knew he'd said the wrong thing. Damn. Damn these other Autobots, and their lust for vengeance. Why couldn't they just go away? He frowned, staring up at the much-bigger Autobot who circled opposite him, and wondered just what he'd gotten himself into.

"Hoo boy!" Sideswipe called from his perch on Sunstreaker's corner of the ring. "Rajy's in for it now! You just had to go an' provoke him, didn't you?"

Frowning to himself, Mirage sorely wished the big red Autobot would just shut up, instead of using Mirage's unfortunate circumstances as furtherment for his own amusement. That was all Sideswipe could usually think of, sashaying through life like some kind of giant cartoon character, a fact which grated Mirage fairly consistently. Damn that Sideswipe and his jokes. Mirage tossed the grinning red warrior a glare, and found too late that it was just what Sunstreaker was looking for. A flash of light and the quick glimmer of a golden chestplate was all Mirage saw before he felt the hot sizzle of a sword-strike against his side. He whirled and brought his guard up just in time to defend against the backstroke, then attempted a press of his own, but Sunstreaker routed him quickly before commencing again to circle.

"And it's _blood!_" Sideswipe exulted from Sunstreaker's corner, and Mirage watched out of the corner of his optic as the red warrior exchanged high-fives with Jazz and Bluestreak.

Sunstreaker's mouth twisted upward into a tiny, diabolical smile. Damn him. Damn his arrogance, and damn his height advantage. Mirage stewed, and tried not to wince at the sting in his side as he stepped cautiously about the ring, mirroring Sunstreaker's every move. "C'mon, Raj!" he heard the voices from his side, cheering him on to a victory he knew he couldn't achieve, and one at this point that he didn't even want. Really, he just wanted to leave quietly, and with his dignity intact.

It wasn't fair. When they sparred without an audience, he was sometimes able to find holes in Sunstreaker's defense, and he even occasionally won rounds. But those were rare occasions, and usually happened only when Sunstreaker was trying some new type of guard, or, Mirage suspected, when he was humoring the smaller Autobot. Now Sunstreaker was giving out no advantages, and at more than a head taller, and a near half-chestplate wider, the yellow warrior looked for all the world to Mirage like a veritable tank. Except he was an exceptionally quick tank. And a mean tank. A really vicious, mean tank who, frankly, Mirage suspected would fit in better among the Decepticon ranks than among the Autobots.

With a sudden, decisive yell, Mirage leaped forward, sword raised high for a glimmer of a moment before changing tact and sweeping low for a sucker-sweep to Sunstreaker's midsection. But just as quickly, Sunstreaker adapted, changed hands, and blocked with his off-hand before stepping smoothly into a left-handed guard and driving Mirage backward with a series of precise, almost surgically artful moves.

_He learned that slag from Sideswipe_, Mirage moaned silently to himself as he fought to stay balanced. Ambidextrous little cheater. All the Autobot universe needed was for Sunstreaker to pick up on his brother's under-handed ways.

Crowing from his perch in the corner of the ring, the cheat himself hooped and hollered as Mirage was battered about the ring, scrambling and ducking to stay just one step ahead of Sunstreaker's offense. Twice he almost found his footing, and once he nearly succeeded in scratching the yellow warrior's shinguard, but that only made the warrior even angrier, and soon Mirage found himself to be the proud owner of yet another singe-mark as he ducked backward under a barrage of viper-quick strokes.

Abruptly, the chime sounded again, signaling the end of the third round, and on cue, Sunstreaker backed off, offered a cursory bow, and retreated to his corner. But not before sliding a quick, cold sneer in Mirage's direction.

"Arrogant beast," Mirage growled, once safe in his own corner. Sure, he was Sunstreaker's friend – in a way – but that didn't preclude him from wanting to smack the smirk off of his faceplate sometimes. Well, most of the time, really.

"Stung you pretty good." Hound's face hovered between the top and middle ropes as the scout looked in at the spy, brows knitted as he offered a sympathetic smile.

Mirage, however, was in no mood for sympathy. "I see that, thank you," he returned curtly, and turned his back on the green Autobot.

"S'matter, Mirage," he saw Powerglide out of the corner of his optic, "Sunstreaker too much for ya?"

"Yeah, Mirage, he ain't nothin," came Cliffjumper's voice in quick tandem

Bristling, Mirage's mind conjured at least five different, scathing ways to tell Cliffjumper and his pals to take a hike, but the blue and white Autobot managed to bite his tongue and maintain a sensible amount of dignity. "As a fighter," he pointed out evenly, fingering the painful burn-mark on his side, "Sunstreaker amounts to a bit more than 'nothing', I should think."

But Cliffjumper's crowd had worked themselves into a bit of a lather, and weren't about to stand for anything but the sight of a good, solid Sunstreaker-thrashing. "Aw, stop playin' around, Mirage," Cliffjumper bawled, "and give that yellow-bellied bastard what-for!"

His temper at the breaking point, Mirage turned a glare on the little min-bot, but before he could say anything, he was drowned out by Sunstreaker's roar of insult. "What did you just call me?" the yellow warrior demanded from across the ring.

"You heard me!" Cliffjumper retorted, puffing himself up despite his ridiculous state of being less than half of Sunstreaker's size. "I called you a robot chicken! An' that's jus' what you are!"

Mirage frowned at the impending sense of calamity spreading through his systems, and would have gladly sunk through the floor if he could – anything rather than being forced to stand in the middle of a brewing brawl. "Cliffjumper," he attempted to hush the mini-bot, but his smooth voice was drowned out by loud indignation from Sideswipe.

"The only chicken I see is the one standin' outside the ring instead of in it!" Sideswipe shot back in his brother's defense, before Sunstreaker or anyone could speak.

"You think I can't fight either one of you?" Cliffjumper stepped forward, one hand on the ropes. "I'll take you both at the same time, you sorry couple o' nothin's!"

"Cliffjumper," Hound put a cautionary hand on the little Autobot. "Save it."

"I ain't savin' nothin'," Cliffjumper growled.

But Sideswipe was already bristling. "C'mere and say that to my piledrivers, you little puddle of slag."

"Sides, man," Jazz had a hand on Sideswipe's arm. "Cool it."

"Yeah, Sideswipe," Sunstreaker agreed, "shut it. Like I can't handle this." He took a step forward, optics narrowing to slits, and his face darkening in the way it always did before he got really nasty. Mirage stood by, forgotten, as the yellow warrior crouched down to fix Cliffjumper with a level stare. "You wanna end up lookin' like Gears, little bigmouth? Then just step inside this ring."

Shouts of fury burst through the crowd of onlookers as Hound and Smokescreen immediately clamped their hands down on a struggling Cliffjumper. In a flash, Sideswipe was at Sunstreaker's side, steering him toward a far corner and talking rapidly while the big yellow mech locked optics with the flailing, screaming-mad Cliffjumper. Twice, Sideswipe snapped his fingers in front of his brother's optics, but it was only after he slapped the yellow warrior's face that Sunstreaker broke contact with the mini-bot to glare at his brother.

Whatever was said, however, was lost on Mirage amidst the chaos of argument that had broken out, and he stood forgotten in the center of the ring while half of the Autobots shouted insults and accusations at Sunstreaker, and the other half tried to break up the mob before it became an all-out brawl. Gradually, Trailbreaker was able to shoo the worst of the crowd out of the training bay doors, while Sideswipe seemed to have some success in knocking enough sense into Sunstreaker's cranial unit to get him to exit out the back door. A grumbling remnant milled about for a few minutes before drifting on toward something else, which left only Hound, and a very unsettled Mirage, in an otherwise deserted training bay.

Usually armed with something sensible to say, Hound merely shrugged and said non-committal fashion, "He's your friend."

To which Mirage replied with a grimace, "It's not my fault he's a jackass." Stowing his energy-sword, and inspecting his new singe-marks with a small grimace, he vaulted lightly over the ropes and out of the ring.

"No," Hound agreed with a thin smile, "though you do have the unfortunate distinction of actually having admitted that you're able to tolerate him."

Mirage offered a non-committal shrug. "Well, at least that means he doesn't generally target me with his violence."

"True," Hound nodded with a smirk, and a sparkle in his optics, "but neither does it speak well for your sense of taste. Or your intelligence."

Grunting and offering a grudging half-smile, Mirage briefly put a hand on Hound's shoulder as he made his way out of the training bay. "Nothing of this war has spoken for anyone's intelligence, or their sense of taste, for that matter. Why bother to start now?" Broadening a smile that didn't touch his optics, he favored the green Autobot with a friendly look before striding quietly through the training bay doors.

Behind him, Hound stood in the silent room and frowned at nothing in particular.

* * *

Mirage sighed, savoring the quiet of his quarters. Down the hall, he could hear someone pounding on something, as well as the faint, muffled tones of someone shouting from one room to the other, but he pretended the noises weren't reaching him, and basked instead in solitude.

He pretended he was back home – not just on Cybertron, but _home_. Mouth curved in a faint smile, he closed his optics and tilted his head back, olfactory sensors testing the air for the faintest scent of river-smell, or the ages-old scent of a wind that soared across the upper skies of Cybertron, its invisible currants never soiling itself against the lower atmosphere, where the noise and dirt of common lives swirled in a constant, roaring chaos of sirens and bickering and tasteless musical selections. No, he had never been a part of that. Through all the years of his long memory, he had lived in the privileged towers of Iacon, where the social elite lived and danced and held themselves apart from lower levels, where the desperate air of survivalism clung to the very air of the streets and byways. Mirage, product of a combination of well-funded engineering, design concepts of actual _artists_, and the impeccable taste of creators who generated mechs and femmes as though sculpting creatures of living art, could be said to possess breeding of the finest standards. He was exactingly made, not some cheap, ill-sparked wretch, whose creator had no plan for his creation's existence beyond the vague desire to play God and have a creation to call his own. No, Mirage was not one of those. He had been created for a purpose, designed to fit perfectly into a society that lived like some divine, royal court among the clouds of Iacon.

He remembered being a young mech. He remembered standing at the window, hundreds of feet above the river below and smelling the faint, rising smell of the water and wondering if there had been anything lovelier than the sight of the setting sun on the river's surface. He had been so happy. He had _belonged._

Opening his optics, Mirage gazed a little wistfully at the walls. A holo-picture hung there, one of him and four of his friends, all grinning, arms flung about each others' shoulders as one mech held up four turbo-foxes. Next to it hung a shelf with the deactivated shell of one of the foxes, its optics staring lightlessly over the room, a permanent captive of the Iaconian elite. Mirage smiled fondly. One of his friends had named the thing Spit, and proclaimed it the family warden of House Highwind, of which Mirage had been the youngest creation. Youngest, and favorite of the House Magnate, who had treated Mirage like his fondest creation, and had beamed with pride at every accomplishment Mirage attained. Fingering a collection of trophies, Mirage recalled the day his team had emerged as grand champions of the Iaconian Polo League.

Hm. It was only too bad he didn't still have his polo speeder, or he might teach these Autobots a gentleman's game, and see how they took to it. But immediately he dismissed the idea as thoughts of bickering and eventual brawling filled his mind. How the Magnate would have hated such a thing, to see such a rough collection of such rabble as these Autobots, much less to see his favorite young mech stuffed helplessly in their midst. A faint pang stabbed through Mirage as he thought of his mentor. How he wished the Magnate was here, and how he wished he could hear his wisdom now that he needed it most. He felt so far from wisdom, so far from everything he'd ever known and understood.

And would the Magnate be disappointed in him? Ducking his head away from the trophies, Mirage closed his optics. Would his mentor see Mirage's indecision about the Autobot cause and finally see his favorite as a weak and indecisive mech? Or would he understand that war was indecipherable, and Mirage was only doing the very best he could in a situation that defied everything he'd ever learned in his youth?

Sighing, Mirage moved away from the wall of trophies and sat down heavily in his recliner. The Magnate had warned him against joining in the idiocy of war, and how he wished he had listened. How he wished he had fled with the other Neutrals into the depths of Cybertron, living in darkness and soot rather than exist as a captive of the insensible machinations of War. How he wished he'd been wise enough to see the coming siege, and to know that if he didn't run, he would be caught like a turbo-fox, gutted of his life-force, and made to stand as some kind of ridiculous House guard over an Autobot way that he hardly understood, much less embraced. With a bitter snort, he looked up at the staring turbo-fox and felt for the thousandth time a kinship with the animal. But perhaps that was his fate for killing it and forcing it to stand and stare over a house that it neither understood nor loved.

The day his tower toppled was the most frightening of his entire life. The siege engines had crouched like black and gruesome nightmares outside the walls of Iacon, battering and tearing at the fortifications and forcefields around the city, and when the barriers began finally to falter, the following artillery brought horrors that Mirage's young optics had never imagined. He watched the highways and homes far, far below him erupt in blooms of orange and white, flowers in a strange black field that had suddenly become incomprehensible. He stared, mouth open, hardly able to process what he was really seeing, when he felt something rock the floor beneath his feet. Blinking, he staggered and clutched the window frame, but it was the sight outside that held him transfixed as the world began to tilt madly, and his mind reeled as he tried to understand why the surface of the city would be rising so quickly to meet him when he realized at once that House Highwind had been hit, and his family tower was crashing slowly and elegantly to the ground.

He couldn't move. He could only listen as the wind whistled in his audios and he gazed almost calmly out the open window, clutching its sides in a numb shock, watching the world heave upward in a mad, drunken rush. He could think of nothing. He could understand no reason why his world was being thrust into such a violent and sudden merge with the world below, and all his processor could spew forth was a piece of poetry he'd once heard during the Festival of Stars.

_And ever the twain shall meet…and ever the twain shall meet…and ever the twain shall meet…_

With a sudden, peculiar plunge, Mirage had felt his body slammed and then sucked downward and downward into an insensible dark. He felt himself jerked about, and then dragged, and the last thing he knew before his systems fell offline was a violent shove in the atmosphere around him as a great, dark thing rocked crazily above him, a gigantic creature in the throes of death.

When he came online again, he found himself in a dim sector of the slums, laying face-down on the banks of the river. A scrabbling at his arm was all the warning he got of the thieves, and if it hadn't been for a nearby Autobot patrol, he would have found himself sold for parts, or slavery, or worse.

Only after they'd taken him to a refugee camp and cleaned him a bit did he come out of his shock enough to put together that he'd somehow miraculously survived the crash of the tower by being slammed into the river and dragged downstream. He wandered the streets. To this day Mirage had no idea how long he'd been incoherent, stumbling about the ruined byways of Iacon, calling and calling for his family, and searching for the stairway that would lead him back to heaven. The worst, he supposed, was when he finally came to the point in the river where the House Highwind lay toppled and broken. Wading among the rubble, he collected and subspaced some of his things that he'd found among the ruins, and he remembered laughing to himself and thinking that he was on some mad version of the treasure hunts his Magnate used to organize at parties. Desperately, he picked through the wreckage of his home, grabbing up artifacts as though they were the keys back to Neverland, and stuffing them in any pocket and cache he had available to him until he found himself standing in the midst of ruins, arms full of an assortment of oddities as he stared bleakly around him and sobbed.

After that day, things got better. He'd enlisted with the Autobots, who had accepted him with all kinds of enthusiasm after seeing his expensive design and costly ability make himself invisible, and he'd settled into his new life quietly, a Peter Pan grown old. But he'd kept the things he'd found that day. He'd kept his treasure.

Most of the Autobots laughed at the things in his quarters and shrugged him off as pining for Cybertron. Which of course, he supposed he was – though not for Cybertron alone. He pined for his home, for the tower among the clouds, where it had seemed in his youth that he'd lived and danced among the very stars.

So Mirage was very protective of his things, and had been horrified the day an Autobot soccer match had burst through the door to his quarters, and whirled about his room like some mechanoid maelstrom before catapulting back out into the hall. Shocked and still wide-eyed at the sudden intrusion, Mirage had stood motionless and blinking about him as he prayed that nothing had been destroyed.

As he was slowly coming to himself, annoyance replacing his surprise, he hadn't noticed that, of the group of soccer players, Sunstreaker had remained. "What's this?" the yellow warrior asked, startling Mirage and making the blue and white Autobot leap to protect his trophy collection.

"Don't touch that!" Mirage snapped, more angrily than he'd meant to, since Sunstreaker really wasn't doing anything more than reading inscriptions.

Lucky for him, the warrior really wasn't listening, or perhaps, in a rare showing of civility, simply chose not to take offense. "Grand Champions – Iaconian Polo League," he read, optics narrowed at the script. "What was the polo league?"

By now, Mirage had recovered enough of himself to conduct himself in more mannerly fashion, and he asked in an even tone, "You…don't know what the polo league was?"

Sunstreaker shrugged. "What's polo?"

Mirage almost shook his head, though he caught himself, and wondered how uneducated a mech had to be to not know what polo was. "It's a game," he explained, "played with speeders. You have a sort of stick, and the object is to put the ball through a goal by hitting it with the stick while riding your speeder."

Sunstreaker raised an optic ridge, and surprised Mirage by actually looking interested. "What kind of speeder? Like a skiff?"

"No," Mirage shook his head, "one you sit on and ride…sort of like a hovercraft version of an Earthen motorcycle, except you largely guide it with your seat and legs, while you maneuver the ball with the stick in your hands."

"Really," Sunstreaker mused, mouth downturned in thought, and Mirage realized he'd piqued the curiosity of the warrior's inner athlete. As difficult as Sunstreaker was, Mirage did have to admit that he was naturally extremely athletic, and considered that he might have made a fine polo player once upon a time.

"Though," Mirage added, as though continuing his thoughts out loud, "the ones who excelled at polo were the smaller, leaner-built mechs who could sit the smaller speeders and execute quick, sharp turns."

"You sayin' I'm too big for polo?" Sunstreaker asked.

To which Mirage replied hastily, "No, no…just that it'd be easy for someone like me to jackrabbit around you. You'd just have to work harder is all."

But, to Mirage's surprise, the warrior didn't seem his usual, irritated self. "Yeah, I can see that," he agreed, face still thoughtful as he worked over the idea of the game in his head, "though I'll bet I could have given you a run for your money." At that, he turned a rare half-smile in Mirage's direction, and Mirage smiled back, though more out of surprise than anything else.

Moving on, the warrior peered into the picture of the five fox hunters, studying their faces with a thoughtful frown. "Your friends?" he asked at length, the first Autobot to do so.

"Yes," Mirage replied, and was surprised at the touch of sorrow in his own tone, even after all this time.

"Where are they now?" he queried, and when Mirage didn't respond, the warrior looked over to find that the blue and white Autobot was unable to find his vocalizer.

And, shockingly, some oft-hidden rationale in Sunstreaker's processor seemed to understand. Turning back to the picture, he tilted his head and changed the subject. "I've never hunted turbofoxes. Are they quick?"

Mirage surprised himself with a short, fond chuckle as he remembered. Smiling faintly, he nodded. "Heh, quickest sprinters known to Cybertron. And clever, too. You had to start thinking like them, imagining what they would do before they did it, or you didn't have the slightest chance of catching one."

"Really." Sunstreaker crossed his arms as he studied the picture, and Mirage detected a hint of challenge in the warrior's stance. The warrior looked around at Mirage, as though sizing him up anew, now that he'd learned of the blue and white Autobot's former accomplishments.

"I could take you hunting sometime," Mirage said without the foggiest idea why, "when we get back to Cybertron." What was he saying? "You'd probably enjoy it."

"Hmph," Sunstreaker grunted noncommittally, and Mirage wondered if that was a grunt of thanks, or a grunt of derision as the tall yellow warrior brushed past him, optics fixed on something new. "That's one of them, isn't it?"

Mirage followed the warrior's gaze to the deactivated frame of the turbo-fox, and he immediately tensed as Sunstreaker reached out to touch it. But the warrior only ran a finger along the lines of the fox's back, head tilted as though studying it with an artisan's optic, and commented almost idly, "I've never seen one of these before."

"Never?" Mirage couldn't keep the surprise from his voice. Turbo-foxes were everywhere on the plains of Iacon, not to mention the thousands of households that thought it stylish to reprogram the things as pets. The zoos were fraught with them, Primus knew, and of course they were very popular quarry in the hunting circles. A little incredulous, Mirage asked, "Where did you grow up, that you never saw a turbo-fox?"

But Sunstreaker didn't reply, and only ran his finger over the fox again, very gently, before straightening to fix Mirage with another stare. Chin high, optics a distant, icy blue, the yellow warrior gazed at Mirage as he seemed to mull something over in his mind, though whatever it was, he didn't say, as, suddenly done with the conversation, he turned and left the room.

Mirage remembered chuckling a little to himself, incredulous, as he made a mental note not to take Sunstreaker too seriously; he was Sunstreaker, after all. But something about the short, odd conversation stuck with Mirage, and after that day, he never could really think of the yellow warrior in the same light; in fact, despite his better judgement, he found that he had begun to grow just a little fond of the other Autobot. Maybe it was a mutual sense of snobbery, or so Mirage mused inwardly, but from that day, Mirage had begun to almost feel a nagging kinship with the big warrior. He couldn't explain it, and certainly wouldn't admit it, but there was something about what the warrior said that made Mirage almost feel…included.

It made no sense; really, it didn't. Sunstreaker was certainly far removed from the sensitive, intelligent circles Mirage had grown up with, but there was also something almost sincere about Sunstreaker's sense of the artistic, and something almost honest about his charisma that Mirage quite nearly found himself _liking_ the warrior. Sure, Sunstreaker's idea of art usually revolved around the construct of his own frame, and his charisma normally expressed itself through bravado and self promotion, but whatever the warrior's faults, Mirage was gradually able to see that beneath the egotist, there actually existed a mech of true substance. Why did he feel this way? He couldn't be completely sure, but he knew it had to do with that short conversation he'd had with Sunstreaker, and with the fact that the completely self-absorbed warrior had somehow been the first Autobot to truly be interested in Mirage's precious collection of artifacts.

Interested, and he'd known, somehow, that they were more than just artifacts. Sunstreaker had known.

The passing of Earth's seasons had marked a terran year since they'd all awakened from the Ark, and the sheer drudgery of being surrounded by the slop of this organic world had made time drag its stubborn heels. But there were some bright spots. There was time spent talking quietly with Hound after dusk, just the two of them staring into the night sky and casually reminiscing about Cybertron. There were moments of peace when he'd been able to forget his doubts, as he slid smoothly through the motions of his job, an artist of espionage, graceful and economical as a cat. There was a cleanliness to perfection, not to mention the added benefit of surviving yet another chapter in this long, disheveled mess of a war, and Mirage had come to admire anyone capable of not only fighting effectively, but gliding through the motions of battle with flawless execution. There was something elusively civilized about being the perfect war machine; while the act of war itself was brutal, the sheer challenge of continuing to defy death, and not just that, but to do it _artfully,_ was like coming full circle, and driving back the uncouth barbarism of war with very act of civility that War had sought to destroy in the first place.

Or so Mirage saw things. He saw some mechs as being more than survivalists; some were virtuosos, and they reminded him that even in the midst of horror, there was culture to be found.

Sunstreaker was one such, if only in glimmers. Most days he was as childishly boorish as ever, but on rare occasions, Mirage saw in him a brand of excellence, and, strangely, a shadowy hint of good breeding that was lacking in most other Autobots.

Of course, all of this didn't mean that Mirage didn't get as frustrated with Sunstreaker as the next Autobot. In fact, he joined in quite readily with the popular practice of never really voluntarily associating with the warrior, at least in his off time. But deep down, in the part of him that couldn't pick and choose his feelings, he had to admit he liked the warrior, and occasionally, to his own chagrin, found himself defending him. Thus the idea of Mirage being Sunstreaker's 'friend' had started, and no matter how Mirage had tried to refute the accusation, it had stuck. Though, if he were honest with himself – and no matter how mercilessly he was teased – he would have to admit that there was some truth to it.

Which was why this whole affair bothered Mirage so much, he thought inwardly, surprising himself with the idea. Frowning, he turned the thought over in his head. Could it be that the trouble with Sunstreaker's violence nagged at him so badly because Mirage thought of the warrior as a friend? He did have to consider that perhaps Sunstreaker's actions and choices wouldn't bother him so much if Mirage felt only ambivalence toward the warrior.

That thought bothered him. Shifting in his chair, Mirage stared at nothing in particular as he considered that the last mech he'd felt any real emotion for was probably buried under the rubble of House Highwind. And he considered that he had been quite comfortable caring about no one at all through all these long years, and would really have preferred to keep going along the same route. He neither wanted nor needed friends.

Angrily, and surprising himself with his own anger, Mirage pulled out a datapad and began thumbing through its literature files, hoping to distract himself from what was becoming a dangerous train of thought. He did not want to think about the growing dread in his core at the idea that he might actually feel the responsibility involved with truly caring about another mech. He did not want to think about the fact that he alone of all the Autobots did not wish Sunstreaker harm because he hated him, but because he _liked_ him.

Unnverved and unsure how to process his own emotion, Mirage stared at the lines of poetry as they scrolled across the screen. But his optics didn't register them, as his thoughts turned inward toward the uneasy thought that somehow, when he hadn't been looking, he had come to actually care for another being.

And that frightened him.

* * *

He tried to put the thought out of his mind, and over the days following, he might have succeeded, if every Autobot within range hadn't been babbling nonstop about Sunstreaker. No, half the Ark still wanted a piece of Sunstreaker, and though most of them were too cowardly to do anything about it, everyone talked at length over the next several days about just how much they'd like to see the yellow warrior get his.

"Get his?" Mirage repeated as he walked the perimeter of the Ark with Cliffjumper late one night. Guard duty in and of itself was wretched, but guard duty with Cliffjumper could be most trying.

"Yeah!" the minibot exclaimed, gun slung over one shoulder, his opposite hand clenched in a fist. "It ain't fair. That son of a slagpit crossed the line with what he did to Gears, and if Prime don't wanna serve him justice, then I say it's up to us."

Mirage frowned. "Us? And what, exactly, would you have 'us' do?"

"I don't know," Cliffjumper growled, kicking at a stone. "Somethin'. I mean, lookit what he did, and he ain't even sorry. Not a bit. He's still the same nasty skidplate, and Prime ain't doin' nothin' about it."

For a moment, the pair walked in silence as Mirage ruminated over the minibot's words. Normally, any sort of babbling that came out of Cliffjumper's mouth was nicely tuned out by Mirage's processor before the words could survive the trip between his audios and his CPU, but tonight he felt himself being drawn in, mesmerized like a bug, staring and floating into the soothing blue of the zapper.

"You mean," Mirage said slowly, his voice soft and sonorous in the night air, "you want to give Sunstreaker a lesson in manners?"

"Lesson nothin'," Cliffjumper spat. "I wanna show him he can't just mess with us other Autobots. I wanna teach him what pain feels like."

Something in the back of Mirage's mind argued that such a thing was not theirs to teach, but that inexplicable anger welling up in him, and he found himself brushing aside the voice of reason in favor of listening to the sweeter sounds of payback. It was as though something in him clicked, and suddenly the idea of thrusting a barrier between Sunstreaker and himself – of irreparably breaking any friendship they might have had – seemed like the simplest solution he could think of. To his logic center, the ideas forming in his head made little sense, and there was a voice that nagged him with the warning that he was straying far from honorable grounds. But in his core he felt the more pressing need to be free of the responsibility of friendship, much less the liability of friendship with someone like Sunstreaker. It was simply too much.

Besides, if the score was settled up, maybe a bit of peace would return to the Ark, and everyone could get back to minding their own business, instead of paying so much attention to Sunstreaker's. Yes, that was it. Release was what the Autobots needed, or so Mirage told himself, before the tension around the Ark finally snapped, and something really regrettable happened.

Cliffjumper emitted an elaborate sigh. "Look, Mirage, I know Sunstreaker's your friend an' all, but even you gotta admit –"

"In fact," Mirage interrupted smoothly, before the sound of Cliffjumper's voice really began to grate, "I was thinking that you had a valid point."

The minibot all but skidded to a stop. "You were?"

Pausing smoothly, Mirage turned to gaze down at the other Autobot. "Yes, I was. In fact, I'm thinking that perhaps a little bit of turnaround is what we all might need in this case, and I'm thinking I know just how to accomplish the task."

Optic ridges still raised high, Cliffjumper regarded him with a look of surprise, his optics glowing softly in the dark. "You do?"

Smiling wanly, Mirage began walking again, while Cliffjumper scrambled to catch up. "Well, spit it out!" the minibot demanded. "This I gotta hear."

Mirage lifted his chin, optics surveying their surroundings as he spoke, as he didn't want to be overheard by any overly-curious Autobots. "For starters," he said, keeping his voice low, and aware that even low voices travel well in the dark, "we would need a group of us, maybe four or five altogether, who can be trusted to keep silent."

"Whaddya got in mind?" Cliffjumper interrupted. "We just gonna gang up on him? 'Cuz we already talked about that, and you know Prime'd have our skidplates—"

"No," Mirage winced at Cliffjumper's complete lack of sangfroid, and he silenced the minibot before he could really start rambling. "What I have in mind would mean we never get our hands dirty, and we never get in trouble, so long as no one ever talks."

"Well," Cliffjumper pointed out, "whatever yer gonna do to Sunstreaker, don't you think he'd go rattin' us out to Prime the first chance he got?"

"Of course," Mirage agreed with a shrug. "But who would believe him when five Autobots tell the story differently? In fact, if we time this right, Sunstreaker will not only get hurt, his credibility will suffer as well."

"Now that," Cliffjumper's mouth widened into a grin, "would be worth it. What's yer idea?"

But Mirage shook his head. "Not here. And I need a few days to work something out…" He paused, staring into the dark as he calculated just how he would pull this off, and why he was going to such lengths when he should have been able to ignore this entire mess. But, against his will, he felt himself being sucked in, his logic and good sense overridden by an overwhelming need for a return to solitude. He desperately wished to be free of what was becoming the cumbersome weight of responsibility for a friend he did not wish to have. At length, he spoke up, and when he did, it was with a final stomp on that tiny voice of reason that had so persistently nagging at the back of his thoughts. But no more. "Bring me three other Autobots," he said decisively, "and be in my quarters by zero-six. Can you manage guard duty alone? I'll be back by zero-five-thirty when the relief comes."

Cliffjumper nodded, and brought his gun to port-arms. "I'll be fine. But where you goin'?"

Mirage tallied the time he had as he stowed his rifle. Almost seven hours, plus a full charge; he'd make it there and back with time to spare. "Never mind that," he said. "Just don't get caught alone. I'll be back."

With that, he turned and began to make his way quietly through the trees and down toward the base of the mountain.

* * *

Why was he even doing this? He tried to ask himself all sorts of sensible questions as he skimmed along the deserted highway, his headlights barely pushing against the dark enough for him to see the road below him. Again that little voice of reason, that civilized, cultured tone, rose up to beg for his attention, pleading for him to listen before he committed himself to something rash. But just as quickly, he squashed it, and bit down with all of his available resolve. Why shouldn't he do this? What did he owe Sunstreaker, that he should maintain any loyalty for a mech who deserved nothing but retribution for all the things he'd done? A solid sense of satisfaction welled up in Mirage, as he felt a sort of relief bleed through him. Yes, better to be done with this mech before Mirage really became enmeshed with a kind of friendship he'd so wisely left behind him after the fall of Iacon. Isolation, he reminded himself, was far more peaceable than the turmoil that can come from caring about another being. He'd been ambushed by that kind of pain once, and he certainly wasn't giving out any opportunities now for any sort of give-a-damn nonsense to claim him. Because once you gave a damn, the subsequent (and inevitable) loss was more than Mirage could handle twice in a lifetime.

And anyway, weren't the Autobots looking for justice? And he was only helping them out.

Never mind that a small part of him felt a little sick at his own actions, or that an even smaller part of him had the idea that, in a way he didn't realize, justice had already been served in spades.

Committed, he shot through the darkness until he came at last to the turnoff point, and from there, he made his way more slowly over the uneven terrain. It wasn't a long stretch before he came to the designated meeting point, and found the Decepticon jeep waiting as promised in the shadow of an overhang.

"You better be alone," it groused, trying to sound dangerous despite its considerable disadvantage of only being Swindle.

"I am," Mirage replied smoothly, and transformed. Swindle did the same, and for a moment, the two mechs sized one another up, trying to decide which of them was pulling a fast one.

But Swindle had too much vested in his business to screw it up by betraying his customers to the meddlesome Decepticons, and Mirage had no interest in ruining his relationship with one of the only reasonably reliable mechs to be found in the enemy camp, so at length each gave an imperceptible nod, and the bartering began. Swindle crossed his arms. "Well? What can I do for you? And you do know it will cost you an extra percentage, pulling me out here late at night with barely an hour's notice."

"Granted," Mirage replied, "though I doubt you could have gotten away during duty hours, so this really can't be any more of an imposition than hailing you during daylight hours."

Swindle smirked. "Yeah, well, I'm less worried about the imposition on my time than I am about the credits I had to pay Vortex to cover for me while I snuck out."

Mirage smiled thinly. "Of course. But isn't that just part of a blackmarket dealer's overhead?"

Swindle threw up his hands. "Alright, alright, we'll discuss tacking on the extras later. What'd ya call me out here for in the first place? You want weapons? Cuz I got a nice contraband impulsion rifle here that's a real beaut, and I know you're the rifle type of mech—"  
"I want to arrange some payback," Mirage stated flatly, and Swindle blinked.

"You want what?"

"Payback," the Autobot repeated, gazing blandly into the Decepticon's confusion-riddled faceplate. "Specifically, I need three Decepticons who won't mind handing out a bit of a lesson in manners to a certain Autobot."

Swindle let out a long whistle, a crooked smile lighting his features. "Heh. Too good to get your own hands dirty?"

Mirage shrugged. "Too…inconvenient."

To which Swindle replied with a broad grin. "That, my friend, I understand. But who's the Autobot? Cuz it'll cost you, depending on how popular his is with my current supply of thugs, and with how thorough a job you want them to do, and when. Timing could be very pricey, you know."

"Of course," Mirage agreed smoothly. "We wouldn't want anyone being unduly…inconvenienced. My plan is to accomplish this little lesson during a battle. I know a few Autobots who wouldn't mind leading this certain mech to a side area, where your 'thugs' would have about five minutes with him. And of course we would want to watch, so that he got the point."

"Right before you 'routed' the three Decepticons, to make it look good to Optimus?" Swindle finished for him, surmising Mirage's plan nicely, and Mirage nodded. "Well, the routing part will cost you more than the lesson in manners. No Decetpicon wants to pretend to be driven back by you Autobots, since that's usually unpopular with Kiss-My-Cannon-Megatron."

"But we can't allow this Autobot to be killed," Mirage noted, "and I don't actually want to engage these three Decepticons if I can help it, since I am paying them for a service. It's impolite to shoot at your suppliers."

"Agreed," Swindle replied with some enthusiasm. "So…if I have this straight, you want three Decepticons to rough up a yet-unnamed Autobot for five minutes during a battle, and then retreat when you 'attack' them, just to make you look good."

Mirage nodded. "It is imperative that we keep our hands clean in this. Things could become complicated if we don't."

"Indeed," Swindle eyed him. "So, who's the Autobot?"

"Sunstreaker."

At that, Swindle threw back his head and barked out a loud laugh, making Mirage glance nervously about the area. Hands on his hips, Swindle cocked his head. "Oh, that knocks the price down right there. I got tons of guys who'd be happy to take a whack at that yellow jerk."

"He's not to be killed."

"And the price goes back up." Swindle cupped his elbow in one hand, and tapped his mouth with a forefinger. "You got a specific date in mind for this little 'lesson'?"

For a few minutes more, they bartered back and forth, Swindle ultimately getting the better of Mirage in the price war. Having grown up rich, Mirage had never had the occasion to barter, and he ruefully noted yet another advantage given to those who were raised in the slums. Some days it seemed that his 'advantaged upbringing' was really some sick, cosmic joke the gods had played on him, just before thrusting him into the middle of a war. Class and good breeding had small effect on the scrap-and-tumble masses who populated the rough scape of his existence, and there were times when he felt as though he were the last bastion of Cybertonian civilization. 'Adapt and overcome', wisdom dictated, and he admitted that it made good sense, but somehow, he just couldn't lower himself to the seedy levels of survivalist scum that Swindle so eloquently modeled. Better to lose the battle than lose the war, right?

Several credits lighter, and the term 'short end of the stick' running through his processor, Mirage sped back to base, where he met with and explained the situation to the others. Among Cliffjumper's volunteers were Powerglide, Warpath and, of all people, Tracks. The minibots were no surprise, but Mirage hadn't figured on Tracks wanting to get his hands dirty with a stunt like this. Then again, Mirage hadn't figured himself for wanting dirtied hands, and he did have to recall that there was a long-running enmity between the two egotists, so he supposed in the end that it made sense.

Sense. What ever made sense in a war?

* * *

A bit of a knot in his middle, though still firmly committed, Mirage told the others about his plan, and received a chorus of enthusiasm for his efforts. Being simple, his plan had every chance for success, and the other four Autobots applauded him and gave him their absolute support. Now all they had to do was wait for an appropriate battle to present itself, and for Swindle to make contact with the details.

Within four days, both happened, and, armed with coordinates for the 'lesson', four determined supporters, and one oblivious Sunstreaker, Mirage rolled into battle as the Autobots sought to defend one of the humans' power plants from a Decepticon raid. Immediately, Prime transformed and began to issue orders, while Prowl organized the first assault, and within minutes, everyone was properly engaged. Slowly, the five co-conspirators worked their way into a bunch, Cliffjumper luring Sunstreaker with them by repeatedly feigning need for assistance, and when the time was right, Mirage opened a predetermined channel to Swindle.

"Ready when you are," he sent briskly, just as Powerglide landed and crouched behind a nearby barricade. Sunstreaker fired off a few frighteningly accurate shots into the Decepticon ranks, completely unaware of being surrounded by traitors.

After a brief moment, Swindle's voice sounded over the link. "I'm sending them your way now. Be at the proper coordinates in thirty seconds. Out."

Quickly, Mirage herded the group to the southeast edge of the battlefield where, directly on schedule, three Decepticon jets circled and transformed to land on a secluded patch of ground.

Immediately Sunstreaker took the bait, and Mirage had to suppress a dark smile as the yellow warrior charged in to engage, so sure of his five supporters that he didn't even bother to look behind him, where the others had stopped to watch. "You guys can have the others," he called, "but leave Starscream for me."

"You want Starscream, eh?" the Decepticon sneered, neatly dodging a shot from Sunstreaker's gun, and maneuvering with Thundercracker and Skywarp to surround him. It was obvious that the yellow warrior had charged in with the idea of engaging the jets in close combat before they could take off again, and it would have been a good plan, had the odds not been three to one.

At last sensing something wrong, Sunstreaker crouched and spun, weapon at the ready as he eyed the three jets creeping in on him, but it was only when he noticed the Autobot spectators to the side that his face fell, and he realized what was happening.

"Now play nice," Starscream chided mockingly, "and give your buddies that gun."

Snarling, Sunstreaker's optics darted from the Autobots to the jets, his initial shock giving way to fury as he crouched even lower, ready to spring. "You can pry it from my cold, dead hands," he spat.

Skywarp tsk'd. "I don't think he wants to play nice, Starscream."

"Well, apparently Skywarp," Starscream replied in snidely genteel tones, "that is what we're here to teach him."

"Mirage –" Sunstreaker attempted, with a flicker of a glance in Mirage's direction. "What's going on? For Primus' sake -"

"What's wrong, little jetrider, afraid to fight your own battles?" Thundercracker chuckled from behind the yellow warrior, and Sunstreaker whipped his head around, optics narrowed dangerously.

Balling himself even tighter, the yellow warrior eyed the taller jet, face a mixture of betrayed wrath and a refusal to be dominated. "Come and find out," he snarled, and with a flash of blurred colors, the lesson began.

Starscream yelped as two neat shots peppered through his left wing, but just as quickly, Skywarp wrenched Sunstreaker's gun from his hands and hurled it aside, while Thundercracker grappled with the yellow warrior. Enraged, and limber as a cat, Sunstreaker slithered out of Thundercracker's grasp for long enough to give him an uppercut to the jaw, but a swift elbow to the face from Starscream ended the warrior's assault, and the jets converged on him like a trio of wolves. A violent wrench from Skywarp nearly tore Sunstreaker's left arm from its socket, and the warrior gasped so loudly that Mirage could hear him even over the scuffle. Left arm limp, he tried to fight back, but Thundercracker held him fast while Starscream began pummeling him in the face and midsection.

"You ain't doin' scrag to him, Starscream," Thundercracker groused after a series of hits failed to produce sufficient dents.

"It's that polymer armor," Skywarp pointed out.

"Well, have it off then," Starscream ordered, and both he and Skywarp hooked their fingers around the edges of Sunstreaker's chestplate.

"Now _that_'ll learn 'im," Cliffjumper cheered as the two jets struggled to tear up the top corner of Sunstreaker's armor.

"Teach you to mess with us, Sunstreaker!" Powerglide called, and everyone watched as the jets finally succeeded in wrenching back a side panel. Mouth dripping with energon, Sunstreaker clenched his jaw against screaming as he struggled and kicked, fingers of his good arm clawing desperately at Thundercracker and gaining no purchase.

"Zam! Get his shinguards next!" Warpath called. "He – zoom! – loves his shingaurds!"

Mirage frowned as he watched an exact replay of what Sunstreaker had done to Gears, and wondered why he didn't feel any sense of justice. Wincing, he watched while Starscream and Skywarp began yanking at the yellow warrior's shinguards, and when Sunstreaker finally buckled and screamed, something in Mirage snapped, and he realized the absolute horror of what he'd done. "We have –" to stop this, he tried to say, but a sudden, violent push at his back tore the words from his mouth, and he watched, frozen with dread, as Sideswipe waded in, slinging his piledrivers and roaring for blood.

_Of course,_ Mirage found his processor musing, as if at a distance, _the jetpack warrior would wonder where the jets had gone…_

Bellowing wordlessly, Sideswipe drove his piledrivers over and over into the jets, efficiently rocking them back with blow after devastating blow. Caught offguard, their light frames ill-prepared to take the brunt of Sideswipe's piledrivers, much less his rage, the three jets staggered back, unbalanced. Skywarp fell to his knees from a direct blow to his midsection, and if Thundercracker hadn't yanked him up at the last moment, the maddened Sideswipe would have had his head off at the shoulders. Scrambling, utterly surprised, and off-kilter, Starscream ordered a hasty retreat, and there three jets took to the air, leaving Sideswipe to shriek a litany of curses and oaths in their wake.

Silence descended, and Mirage could hear the swift rush of air passing through Sideswipe's intakes, though whether it was from exertion or rage, he didn't know. Quickly, the red warrior knelt down and touched his brother's face, fingers trembling with fury and shock as he probed at the cuts and oozing energon. Swiftly, he fingered the edges of Sunstreaker's torn armor, before staggering to his feet, optics wide with shock. He took a few reeling steps in Mirage's direction, then stumbled back, as if unsure whether to stand watch over his brother, or to savage his betrayers. "You…" he breathed, face a mask of horror and fury. "We have never left you!" Pointing, he fixed Mirage with a terrible look, and at once Mirage understood the hatefulness of what he had done. "We have never left you!" Sideswipe repeated, voice shaking with rage and what sounded frighteningly like hurt, and Mirage knew suddenly that the consequences of their actions would be far worse than anything Prime would have planned. As if confirming this, Sideswipe ran his appalled gaze over every face present, memorizing, and Mirage's internals sank as though they had turned to lead. "Never…" the warrior repeated, staggering back toward his brother, his own shock still ruling him. "Never left you…" He dropped again to his knees to lean over Sunstreaker.

"What is this?" Mirage heard a smooth voice at his back, but was too afraid to make a reply, so he averted his gaze as Prowl brushed past him to assess the scene. Too quickly, he did, and whether the tactician had seen what had happened, or was only surmising the truth from the obvious guilt in the air, it was clear that Prowl knew. Calmly, he began to issue orders. "Tracks, Mirage, Warpath, back to the alpha sector. Powerglide, go aid the Aerialbots. And Cliffjumper, fetch Ratchet. Tell him it's a priority one."

Still frozen, nobody moved, and Mirage noted with a bit of dread the quickly-growing pool of fluids seeping out of Sunstreaker's wounds. But Prowl gave them no time to ruminate, and certainly no time to explain. Still calm, but with a deep, underlying anger in his tone, he commanded simply, "Move."

As one, the five guilty Autobots scurried to do as Prowl had ordered, and for a while at least, they were too busy to think about what they'd done, as they became too occupied with the tasks at hand. But they all knew that at some point the battle would end, and they would have to face what waited for them at the Ark.

* * *

"What's he gonna do to us?" Tracks murmured in Mirage's audio. All five of the guilty party sat outside of Prime's office, waiting for the Autobot commander to speak with them.

Head hanging, shoulders slumped, Tracks looked as gloomy as Mirage had ever seen him. "Trial, most likely," Mirage mumbled back as softly as he could, unwilling to disturb the quiet, or worse, call attention to himself.

"No…" Tracks shook his head, "what's _Sideswipe_ going to do to us?"

At that, three other sets of optics peered upward, the tension growing palpably as everyone had the same simultaneous thought. Mirage could see it in their optics. Everyone knew that Sunstreaker was not the one a mech needed to fear. It was easy to forget that. Sideswipe was normally so good-natured. Normally.

"Mirage," came Prowl's voice, and everyone jumped. The tactician stood in the open doorway of Prime's office. "Optimus wants to talk to you."

* * *

Somehow it was put together that Mirage had spearheaded the whole effort, and despite his discomfort, Mirage had to hand Prowl credit for correctly assessing the situation. Optimus was understandably angry, and Mirage found to his surprise that it bothered him – really bothered him, in fact, so much that he couldn't bring himself to meet the commander's optics, or speak above a whisper. All of his usual good bearing and self-possession lay crumpled in the wake of what he'd done, and Mirage was left to present himself like some broken thing, quiet and downcast.

They were all sentenced to time in the brig – not in the Hole, as there was only one, but in isolation, where they could not speak to one another, and where no one came to speak to them. That was the worst time for Mirage. He wanted so badly to tell Prime that he was sorry, and wanted even worse to tell Sunstreaker, who he realized he was still fond of, no matter how far away he'd tried to push him. To his dismay, he understood too late that one can't pick and choose one's feelings, and in his effort to abandon his friend, he'd ended up the one abandoned, because no matter how much he didn't want to give a damn about Sunstreaker, he did. He did give a damn.

The week of silence passed slowly, and in the end, when the five were released, each was a grim shadow of his former self. There was no bravado, and certainly no thoughts of vengeance now. In fact, the entire Ark had taken a somber mood, and if anyone had held a grudge against Sunstreaker before, they were pacified now, and everyone treated him with a quiet kind of courtesy after he'd emerged from medical. Most people, however, steered clear of Sideswipe.

"He's gonna get us," Cliffjumper whispered one day, as they were laboring at digging a trench. So far over the last few days they'd dug and refilled the one-hundred-meter trench three times. It was heartbreaking work.

Mirage kept his head down, and shouldered into the shovel. Simple human tools for this, he thought miserably.

"I wish he'd just get it over with." Cliffjumper mumbled, then mercifully shut up. Mirage didn't want to be reminded.

Because it was true. More than a week had passed, and the red warrior had done nothing more than stare in their direction, but Mirage knew better than to let his guard down. Tracks suggested that maybe Prowl had somehow put a stop to Sideswipe's plans for payback, but everyone knew better, even Tracks. There was no stopping Sideswipe, not over this, and everybody knew it. The whole Ark seemed steeped in anticipation, as if counting the seconds between a lightning flash and the inevitable toll of thunder.

"Where is he?" Cliffjumper asked two days later. "Have you seen him today?"

"No," Mirage mumbled curtly, and continued to dig. So far the warrior had done nothing, and if Mirage hadn't known Sideswipe, he would have thought him innocent, with no intentions of any kind of retribution. But he did know him. And the sheer fact that Sideswipe hadn't smiled in over a week unnerved him more than if the warrior had chased after him with an energy-axe. That, and the fact that Sideswipe often stared in their direction, his faceplate smooth and emotionless, his optics pale as the sky before a tsunami.

Another day passed, and still nothing. Cliffjumper had worked himself into a fit of frazzled nerves, and was jumping at every shadow. Tracks maintained his unnatural gloom, while Powerglide and Warpath often stood back to back while they shoveled, faces pointed grimly outward as though expecting assault at any moment. As for Mirage, he kept his head down and waited.

Powerglide was first. In the middle of the night, Mirage was jerked online by the sounds of someone shrieking in pain, and he rushed out into the hall, where a mass of Autobots blundered into one another in their attempts to find out what was going on. At last they discovered Powerglide, his wings melted at their base, and the underlying circuitry fused beyond repair. It took forever to stop the burning, since it's nearly impossible to put out white phosphorous, and Inferno worked a frighteningly long time to clear the last of it from Powerglide's systems.

Ratchet was incensed. "I can't repair this!" he exclaimed, disgusted. "This'll have to be a complete rebuild, from the basic framework up…" He shook his head over a quivering Powerglide, and it was clear in the end that it would be a long time before Powerglide took to the skies again.

Of course, no one could prove that Sideswipe had done it. So he was one of the only Autobots with consistent access to phosphorous, and so Powerglide's wings had been ignited by phosphorous ampoules strategically placed in his recharge berth. The truth was, nobody could pinpoint a time when Sideswipe was without an alibi, and so no one could prove that he'd ever had even the briefest moment to slip down to Powerglide's quarters, override the lock, and place the ampoules. Prowl was furious, but no matter how meticulous the tactician was, Sideswipe was disturbingly clever, especially when he was angry, and everyone quickly remembered that he'd come with a reputation for being dirty and underhanded for a reason. The King of Pranks was angry, and now the games were on.

Cliffjumper was nearly undone, and by morning, he'd picked up a bit of a shake in his hands. "We're next," he shook his head dourly, "I know we're next. I can feel it."

Warpath jittered, his discomfort seeming to increase daily. "Me too," he muttered, head low as he absently scratched at his gun barrel. Mirage and Tracks worked on in silence.

That afternoon, Tracks was summoned to Prowl's office, and when he returned twenty minutes later, it was with a look of mortification.

"What's wrong?" Mirage asked softly, still for some reason afraid to speak above a whisper.

Tracks turned him a miserable look. "The Ark is getting complaints," he managed, voice cracking just at the edges. "They're saying I'm making prank calls all over the city of Portland…they want me to stop." He shook his head, brows knitted. "I didn't make any calls."

"All over the city?" Mirage repeated. "What do you mean?"

"Over a hundred calls a night!" Tracks blurted, much more loudly than Mirage would have liked. Both mechs looked nervously about them, then bent the heads together again. "They're being tracked to my room, but I'm not doing it. I'm not."

The next morning, Tracks was called in again, and this time it was nearly an hour and a half before his return. When he came back, he was shaking visibly. Head down, hands hanging at his sides, he stared bleakly at the dirt. "I'm not doing it, Mirage."

"More calls?" Mirage asked, pausing from work.

Tracks looked up, his face a little deathly. "A lot more. And…they got to Raul." Again he hung his head. "My friend won't speak to me…he wants Optimus to keep me away from him."

Mirage blinked. Surely Tracks' friend would understand, if he'd just let the Autobot explain. Surely…Mirage narrowed his optics. "Tracks," he asked gently, "what kinds of calls are these?"

Again Tracks met his optics, and this time there was a bit of steely anger in his face. "The wrong kind," he said flatly.

"What about Sideswipe?" Cliffjumper spoke up near Mirage's elbow. The minibot had slunk into the conversation without Mirage's notice.

Tracks sighed. "They questioned him. But they can't find a link. And no matter how many times Red Alert goes over the pathway coding for the Ark's com systems…" He shrugged. "It keeps coming back to me. Those calls…they actually originate from my quarters, in my voice, and when I'm there, but I'm not doing it! I swear!"

Cliffjumper looked around, wringing his hands, a gesture he'd only recently picked up. "It's him. I swear it's him."

"I know it's him," Tracks growled, a desperate whine lacing the edges of his voice. "Even Prowl thinks it's him. But we can't prove it."

Cliffjumper frowned, his lip quivering a bit, though he didn't realize it. "He's gonna get every one of us." Shaking, he went back to shoveling. "Every one."

Perhaps their fear would not have been so great had they not been truly guilty. Had it been a situation of errors, with grey areas and fuzzy lines where everyone had justifiable reasons for what they'd done, they wouldn't have been so afraid. But the truth was, no matter how good it had felt to serve Sunstreaker with a little bit of payback, it had only been that: payback. It had not been justice, and they did not feel better, and now, no matter what Prowl tried to do to protect them, they knew it was inevitable that Sideswipe, in some way or another, was going to get them.

Which only amplified their nerves, and which only served to make things worse when he succeeded. And succeed, he did.

When Tracks was summoned a third time by the command element, it was with a look of resignation that he reported to Prowl's office, and when he returned, he wouldn't speak. He simply turned his back on the others, put his head down, and continued where he'd left off digging.

Mirage found out later through the grapevine that Tracks had been banned from the city until further notice, and that he was to be under strict supervision until the matter could be cleared up. There were those of the command element who highly suspected Sideswipe of foul play in this, but command also had to consider that Tracks might actually be guilty, and so he was to be given no contact with the humans until he could be cleared of wrongdoing.

Cliffjumper was undone. "Don't you see?" he crowded Mirage, the only one of the four who still wanted to discuss the situation. "He's makin' it personal. He's going after the stuff we love."

Mirage frowned as he wedged his shovel into the dirt, and stole a glance at Tracks, who worked in silence further down the trench.

"Who's gonna be next?" The minibot bit his lip, hardly seeming aware that Mirage wasn't responding to him. "Powerglide's wings…Tracks' human friends…what's he gonna take from me?" His last words trailed off into a kind of half-mumble as he stared into space, brows knitted.

Warpath rubbed at his gun barrel, a new habit for him over the last several days. "Maybe we should talk to him. Say we're sorry."

At that, Mirage actually laughed, soft and low and incredulous, as he favored the tank with a wry glance before going back to work, mouth set in a grim line as he realized that Cliffjumper was right, that Sideswipe _was _making it personal, and that none of them were sorry. Not yet.

Like clockwork, Warpath went down the next day. Very early in the morning, just as they were climbing out of the trench and beginning to fill it back in, the Autobot tank began to bat insensibly at his gun barrel. Shovel forgotten in the dirt, Warpath backpedaled, as if to get away from his own chestplate, as he clawed and yanked at his barrel.

"Path?" Cliffjumper furrowed his brow. "What's wrong?"

"Get it off," the tank half-whined, half-wheezed as he stared with wide optics at the offending barrel.

"What?" Cliffjumper tipped his head, face screwed up with worry and confusion as he and Mirage watched the increasingly nervous display. Tracks, oblivious, continued filling the trench with dirt.

"I want…" Warpath looked up, optics wild and a little clouded, as his fingers hooked and unhooked themselves, as though itching to gouge away his own finish. "…I want it off. Get it off. Now! Get it off!" Again he took to clawing at the thing as his voice rose to a screech, and when clawing didn't work, he pulled a small sidearm from subspace and took aim.

"No!" Cliffjumper immediately leaped to intervene, and narrowly escaped being pegged by the ricochet as the laserbolt bounced harmlessly off Warpath's gun barrel. Hastily, he tried to wrest the sidearm from Warpath's grip, but the tank held it tight, and tried to fire off another shot even with Cliffjumper hanging on.

"What in the holy blazes –" Ironhide's voice bellowed from somewhere over Mirage's shoulder, and Mirage, who could do nothing but stand and watch, was aware of a rust-colored mech brushing past him. Ducking another shot, Ironhide managed to wrest the sidearm away from the mini-tank, and between him and Cliffjumper, somehow succeeded in pinning Warpath to the ground.

Mirage never knew why he didn't move to help, or why he felt such a sense of detachment. He considered later that perhaps it was his own sense of inevitability, and admitted that he even felt the tiniest bit relieved every time one of them was struck with catastrophe, because that meant that he was one step closer to facing his. And facing it was better than anticipating it.

Cliffjumper illustrated that perfectly. When Ratchet assessed Warpath's condition, he found that the mini-tank's barrel had been coated with a slow-acting corrosive that not only caused extreme discomfort, it 'bled' so far into the metal that it couldn't be stopped without removing the tank's entire barrel. So Warpath was deprived of his pride and joy, and though it was only for a few weeks while Ratchet constructed a replacement, the effect it had on Warpath was so devastating that the Autobot tank refused to meet anyone's gaze, and shuffled the halls of the Ark with his head hanging between his shoulders. Again, no one could actually prove that Sideswipe had done it, but Cliffjumper was literally beside himself.

"They got him in for questioning, but it won't do any good," the minibot muttered, shaking his head back and forth as he and Mirage labored in the trench. Further down, Tracks worked silently, while Powerglide and Warpath, both back from medical, both shoveled dirt with slow, dejected movements.

"Mirage," Cliffjumper pressed, his face upturned at Mirage's elbow, and if the little Autobot had had any less self-control, Mirage suspected he would have grabbed onto the taller Autobot's arm. "They're gonna let him go. They got nothin' on him. Don't you get it?" He looked around, hands wringing themselves around the handle of his shovel. "We're next. We're _next._"

Briefly, Mirage closed his optics and stood still. "And so what?" he asked softly. He sighed, and gazed down at the smaller Autobot, who stood staring up at him with the air of an overwrought, wheedling child. "Let it be," he said, and would have said more, but he knew it would have fallen on deaf audios. Quietly, he turned away, and left Cliffjumper to fidget and fret alone.

Nothing happened that day or the next, but Cliffjumper, instead of letting his guard down, only coiled himself into a snarling, bleary fit of worry. It was very strange for Mirage to see the minibot, who was normally so full of bravado, reduced to such a state. He watched out of the corner of his optic as the minibot shoveled frenetically, dirt flying in haphazard clods, the minibot's faceplate frozen with the anticipant doom of a prey animal that knows it's a matter of mere heartbeats until the swift and inevitable ambush. So overwhelming was Cliffjumper's tension that Mirage felt the tendrils of it beginning to creep about his own frame, and several times he had to shake off a trembling in his hands, or clamp down on the frantic flow of air through his intakes as a palpable wave of the minibot's fear up to suffocate him. Part of him even began to agree with Cliffjumper, as he found himself wishing for Sideswipe to finish the job and let them suffer in miserable peace, while another part of him wanted to turn on the foolish minibot and scream for him to run before it was too late.

But he couldn't run, and that was what made his fear so great. If he'd been justified in what he'd done, Cliffjumper would have been able to take a stand, his courageous bravado emanating in waves as he held his chin high and shouted for Sideswipe to do his worst, all while brandishing rude gestures and disparaging the warrior's family lineage. Or so Mirage imagined things would go, and he was probably right. But the truth was that Cliffjumper had no pride to display. He, loyalist fighter who abhorred all forms of treachery, had become himself the traitor, and he was undone. He was the traitor. He had done what he hated, and realized too late what he had become, and he was ashamed. He couldn't fight back against Sideswipe, who had every right in Cliffjumper's mind to call him out for the traitor that he was, and it was killing the minibot from the inside out. He was trapped by his own guilt, his simple, black-and-white, loyalist mind unable to reconcile himself with what he'd done. He was a traitor, not only to Sunstreaker, not only to the Autobots, but to himself.

In the end, he broke. Four days after Warpath's incident, the five guilty Autobots were passing as a group through the Autobot lounge when it happened. Without warning, Cliffjumper rushed at Sideswipe and began pounding him with his fists.

A little surprised, since the warrior hadn't even been looking in their direction, Sideswipe turned in his seat to look down at the flailing Cliffjumper, his faceplate completely bland, with the exception of a slight arch to his metal brow. Over his shoulder, Sunstreaker watched with a bare amount of interest.

When he didn't get a reaction, Cliffjumper turned the warrior a look of fury and brought both of his fists down on Sideswipe's knee. "Why don't you just get on with it?" he shouted, jaw clenched against trembling. "Just…just do it already!"

Bluestreak and Smokescreen, sitting opposite Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, turned puzzled looks toward one another, but other than that, nobody said a word. As for Sideswipe, he merely stared down at Cliffjumper from where he sat, his face so completely devoid of emotion that Mirage gave off a tiny shiver of unease.

"What's it gonna be?" Cliffjumper needled the warrior, trying to sound bold and failing. "Huh? Talk to me, dammit! You gonna scrap me? Huh? You gonna burn me like you did to Powerglide?" Fists balled, he brought them down so hard on Sideswipe's knee that Mirage thought he saw the warrior's armor buckle slightly, but the red Autobot didn't so much as twitch, and only looked through Cliffjumper as though he wasn't even there.

Mirage knew that someone should probably step in, but it was as if nobody knew what quite to do, and so no one moved. Incensed at Sideswipe's complete lack of response, the minibot hit the warrior again. "What's yer problem?" he bawled. "You too chicken to do it in broad daylight?"

With a half-shrug of indifference, Sideswipe turned away, but was brought around again by a sharp tug on his arm. "Please," Cliffjumper pleaded, voice faltering as he quickly took his hands off of Sideswipe's elbow. Face weary with guilt, he put his hands on the warrior's knee and gave it a little shake. "Please…just…just do what yer gonna do." Almost like a dog begging for scraps from its master, Cliffjumper leaned against the warrior's leg, face upturned as he implored the other Autobot to finally absolve him from what he had done. "Please," he begged, willing to suffer humiliation – anything – if only Sideswipe would finally hand him his retribution and cancel his guilt. "Slag me, scrap me, whatever you gotta do. Just…just do it." He gave the warrior's knee a last, almost timid shake. "Please."

Very slowly then, the corners of Sideswipe's mouth turned smoothly upward into a cold smile, and at once Mirage – and every other mech in the room – understood that _this_ was Cliffjumper's retribution. The warrior said nothing, but in truth there was nothing he could do or say that would so cuttingly expose Cliffjumper's guilt as what Cliffjumper had done to himself. And Sideswipe had only waited for him to do it.

Mortified, Cliffjumper took a step back as comprehension lit his optics. He swept a quick, hunted look around the room, but there was no escaping it now; he had just exposed himself for the low coward and traitor he was, and every Autobot had seen it. Horrified, he took another step back, then whirled and ran from the room, leaving behind him whatever last shreds of dignity he might have possessed, while Sideswipe watched him and smiled a cold, malevolent smile.

* * *

That night marked the last of their term of punishment, and Mirage slunk into his quarters sometime after dusk. Dirty and exhausted, he stood in the center of the room as he so often did, basking in the quiet and straining for the faraway sounds of a river that he knew had long ago run dry. Closing his optics, he tried to conjure up the distant lapping sounds, tried to recreate the clean smell of water sliding against its metal bed, but it was as if even his memory banks were exhausted of late, and the last echoes of Neverland had faded at last into silence.

With a sigh, he scrubbed a hand over his face and rubbed a thumb between his tired optics, and at once froze as his spy's instincts picked up the faintest thrum of another mech's fuel pump. Someone else was in his quarters.

For a moment he stood very still, his mind running almost of its own accord over the possibilities of escape, but any plans he had of slipping out unseen were quickly ruined as he felt a small, stinging thump in the small of his back. Startled, he turned, only to see Sideswipe very calmly fire off a second shot into his chest plate.

Paint. He'd been marked with paint, and Sideswipe was standing between him and the door.

"How did you—" he started, then stuttered, as he backed up a step. He tried to calm himself, regain his composure somehow, but something about the look on the other mech's face, and about his cool, predatory movements, made Mirage's internals shudder to life in small, queasy flutters. "How did you get in here?"

It was a stupid question, as it was obvious that Sideswipe had figured out on several occasions how to override a lock, and Sideswipe didn't bother to make a reply. Instead he busied himself with caching his paint-pellet gun in one of his side compartments, his movements unhurried, and his face smooth and unconcerned as a hunter who knows his quarry is trapped, and who is quite content to take his time.

"Look, Sideswipe," Mirage began, "I don't blame you for being angry…" He trailed off as the other mech finished stowing his gun, and began to steadily advance across the floor. Smoothly, his hands retracted, and his piledrivers slid into place.

Alarmed, Mirage began to back away. He knew Sideswipe was angry – deeply angry, in fact – but he surely he wasn't intent on actually using his piledrivers on Mirage. That was too much, too…potentially mortal. Mirage's heel bumped into his chair, nearly causing him to trip, but he caught himself on the armrest. "We didn't mean for him to be so badly damaged," he found himself babbling. "The agreement was that he wasn't to be killed – we only wanted to teach him a lesson –"

Sideswipe swung, and Mirage ducked a fraction of a second ahead of him and scrambled to the side as his collection of trophies clattered across the floor. Smoothly, Sideswipe followed him, while Mirage eyed the bashed-in hole that had once been his trophy display. "—actually, _they_ wanted to teach him a lesson. I wasn't really angry with him, even though it was my idea." What was he saying? Why was he spouting all of this when he was quite sure that Sideswipe was completely disinterested in excuses or explanations? "I admit it," he spread his hands, backing while the tall warrior advanced, "it was my plan, my idea to do it, but it wasn't retribution, and I wouldn't have let him die—"

Again he ducked, and cracked his knee on the floor as he sidestepped and slipped, while his precious picture of himself and his friends exploded into a thousand glittering shards under a blow from Sideswipe. "I wouldn't have let him die," Mirage repeated, his voice rising with the smallest bit of panic. His construct was too light to hold up under those piledrivers, and the big warrior was so horribly quick. Shaking, he clawed his way to his feet, backpedaling. "I like him too much for that, I do. I –" he searched for the proper words, "I like him _too_ much, you see, so much that I've started to care about him, and surely you understand that with that sort of thing comes the kind of responsibility that none of us wants –"

A third time he spun away just in time, and watched as Sideswipe's piledrivers slammed into a vase of precious metals, one the Magnate had especially liked. It crumpled like paper under the force of the blow, and Mirage had only the barest moment to mourn it before he had to focus again on playing this deadly game of keepaway. "I did it because I like him," Mirage heard himself explain in breathless tones, while his mind wondered on another plane at just why Sideswipe would have even the most remote concern for how he felt. "I did it because I don't _want_ to like him…surely…surely you of all people must know how that feels. You must understand that a friendship – a real friendship – isn't something any of us can afford—"

This time it was a clock that flew into a clatter of bits and intricate parts, while the Ark-wall beneath now bent inward to reveal a layer of rock. It had been a timepiece of great beauty, one that had told not only the time of day, but the position and solar cycle of all five planets in what had once been Cybertron's solar system. Now it lay useless and ugly on the ground, and Mirage felt a piece of himself break away as he looked at it and realized that Sideswipe was not aiming for him at all. "Oh, Primus," he whispered, backing away from the warrior even as he stared at the ruined timepiece, and knew in his core that the warrior before him wouldn't be done until he had methodically obliterated every link Mirage had to the life he had once lived. He wasn't here for Mirage's life, but for Mirage's keys to Neverland.

"No, don't –" he protested as the warrior swung again, and brought his drivers down on an ancient gameboard, and sent the pieces hurtling in all directions. Again, the warrior struck, and this time an exquisitely-made energon-lantern ignited and burst into a flare of intense heat before dissipating into the air, and Mirage flinched away from the light, momentarily blinded as he scurried senselessly backward.

At once he felt the solid ledge of a shelf against his back, and when his optics adjusted so that he could see again, he looked up to see Sideswipe looming over him, optics smoldering with patient intensity as he stared down past Mirage's shoulder, and at the frame of the deactivated turbo-fox. Deliberately, he slid his gaze back to Mirage and locked optics, while he brought his piledrivers to bear, and Mirage threw up his hands. "No, please," he heard himself beg, "not the fox. Not this – it's all I have lef—"

Like a vise, the warrior's hand was suddenly around Mirage's throat, and he felt his feet slowly leave the floor as he understood the sheer, black irony of what he had just been saying. Fingers scrabbling, he clawed at Sideswipe's hand, but the warrior's grip was too strong, and he dangled, helpless in the bigger Autobot's grasp, his feet twitching uselessly toward the ground. Optics glittering like sapphire shards, Sideswipe leaned in, and Mirage found himself caught like an animal, wretched and terrified in the warrior's gaze as he understood at last that Sunstreaker was all that Sideswipe would ever know of Neverland; that all that he knew, all that he loved, all of his _belonging_ was with his brother, and that on the day that Sunstreaker fell, Sideswipe would fall, too, an exile forever from the promised land. Sunstreaker was Sideswipe's fabled Tower; he was all that Sideswipe had, and Mirage had been willing to take that from him, and to cause Sideswipe the kind of pain that Mirage himself had been so desperately running away from. "Love is pain," he remembered someone saying once, and it had taken him all this time, but at last he understood what that meant.

"I'm sorry," he whispered honestly, voice breaking at the edges. He gazed into the warrior's burning optics, his terror easing into sorrow as he realized he was looking not into the optics of malice, but into the well of a guardian's soul. "Sideswipe, I am so, so sorry."

Slowly, Sideswipe's grip eased, and Mirage felt his feet gradually settle back onto the floor. One hand still around Mirage's throat, Sideswipe retracted the piledriver on his other arm and reached toward the turbo-fox. For a moment, Mirage's fuel-pump constricted, thinking Sideswipe would destroy the fox after all, but the warrior only picked it up and pressed it to Mirage's chestplate. "For safekeeping," he said, holding Mirage's gaze for a moment before he released the smaller Autobot's throat and stepped back toward the door.

Mirage barely resisted the urge to rub his throat as he held onto the turbo-fox and watched Sideswipe go. Optics still intent, the warrior held Mirage's gaze until he reached the door, where he paused for a moment, as though he would say something more. But instead he merely turned away and stepped quietly into the hall, while behind him, Mirage sank slowly to the floor where he sat for a long while, shaken, but oddly comforted that he had at last been able to say that he was sorry, and that he'd said it to the one he had truly wronged.

* * *

He found Sunstreaker alone in the training bay, working through a series of forms and fighting stances in the ring. For several minutes, Mirage simply watched while the yellow warrior worked through his routine, face set in a deadly-serious mask as he moved swiftly and economically about the floor.

Edging closer, Mirage leaned his arms on the top rope, and watched while Sunstreaker somersaulted to a perfect standstill, where he held himself for a moment before breaking his pose and striding to one corner of the ring. There, he retrieved his energy sword, and then returned to the center of the floor, where he began to work through another series of forms.

"You're working late," Mirage observed, when the silence had dragged itself out too long.

"Being the best doesn't exactly come free," the yellow warrior grunted, without so much a breaking stride.

"Interesting technique," Mirage noted, after watching another round. "That bit with the backswing is good."

Mid-maneuver, Sunstreaker nodded. "I know."

"Where'd you learn it?"

"Life." Sunstreaker crouched and spun, his movements as quick and sure as if he were moving through the choreography of some deadly kind of dance.

"Look, Sunstreaker, I'm –"

"You think too much." The warrior stopped, sword mid-arc, to stare at Mirage.

Caught off-guard, the blue and white Autobot blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

Sunstreaker relaxed, bringing his sword down to his side. "I said you think too much," he said quietly, his voice echoing softly off the training-bay walls. "That's why you can't beat me. You're always thinking."

Mirage frowned, fiddling idly with the top rope. "I'm not quite sure I understand."

Sunstreaker sighed, his trademark five-second-limit on patience having spun itself out. He tapped his helmet. "You fight up here, and you make it mechanical. C'mere, I'll show you."

At first, Mirage hesitated, but at Sunstreaker's impatient gesture, he vaulted into the ring, and summoned his own energy sword. For a brief flicker, the two mechs locked gazes, and Mirage opened his mouth to try again, but Sunstreaker forestalled him with a hand held in the air. "Like this," the warrior said, as he broke optic-contact, and swung his sword in a swift, graceful arc toward Mirage.

Almost without thinking, Mirage parried, and answered with a stroke of his own, his feet already settling into a rhythm. "Good," Sunstreaker nodded. "Now stop trying so hard to out-think me, and start listening to your instincts a bit more. Don't –" he ducked "—think of it as work. Try to think of it as a game."

Mirage felt himself relax, and as they sparred, he forgot his guilt. For the first time in a long while, he felt the easy intensity of a good workout, his mind too busy for worry, the tension melting from his body as he darted and spun about the floor. "It's not a game," he protested, the last available dregs of his focus protesting the idea that any form of war could be fun.

But Sunstreaker was not to be deterred. "It is a game," he countered, and nearly managed to score a hit on Mirage's offside arm. "Don't think like you did last time. It's just the two of us." He pressed, and Mirage parried, driving him back a step. "Think of it as starting over."

And they sparred into the night, in the silence, and Mirage forgot for just that space of time that his home was so very far away.


	4. Interlude: Mirror

Interlude: Mirror

A/N: People have been asking me to upload the remaining chapters of "The Lost", so here's one of them. Enjoy.

* * *

Hound watched the sparring in bemused silence. Everyone had stopped to watch, because no matter how often they saw it, the Autobots never quite got their fill of this game. Neither could anyone but the twins seem to play it with any success, but that was understandable, since it'd been they who had made it up.

It had no name, and as far as Hound could tell, it involved as much dance as actual sparring technique, though there was nothing in heaven or Earth that could move him to say that out loud. He could only imagine Sunstreaker's reaction to being accused of dancing.

In fact, for the first few years of the twins' assignment with this particular unit, everyone had been too scared to ask what exactly it was that they were doing, so for the longest time, the Autobots assumed that the twin warriors were just a nut shy of a working carburetor. Then one day, not long before they'd left Cybertron on the Ark, Trailbreaker had finally summoned the ball-bearings to roll off a lazy question.

"So," Hound remembered him asking one day, as if at random, "what exactly is it y'all are doing anyway?"

"Practicing," Sunstreaker had snapped between moves.

"Oh," Trailbreaker had nodded sagely, and gone back to leaning on the ringside ropes. He watched a while, shifted his bulk onto the other foot, and asked casually, "Practicing…what?"

"Reflexes," Sideswipe had explained as he twisted to mimic his brother's moves. "Mirror."

And that was about it. Nobody ever really got anything out of the brothers, not because they were being secretive, but because Hound suspected they simply didn't think their activity needed any more than a three-word explanation.

Which, in fact, it didn't. Thank Primus Trailbreaker had asked that much, because now at least most Autobots had an idea of what they were doing, even if nobody really had a clue why.

The green Autobot leaned on the ropes now, half-smiling as he – along with about twenty other Autobots – watched the brothers work. He knew the point of it was for one brother to exactly mirror whatever the other was doing, but the truth was, they were so darn good at it, he could never tell which one was the leader, unless they gave it away.

"Slow," Sunstreaker commented, mid-leap. He landed, pivoted three-hundred-and-sixty degrees, quarterstaff sweeping in an arc, before pushing himself off again.

"Am not," Sideswipe argued, exactly mimicking his brother's moves, and Hound had to agree that if the red warrior was slow somewhere, Hound certainly couldn't see it.

"Left foot," Sunstreaker side-stepped, ducked and swept his quarterstaff behind him, "drags."

"You need," Sideswipe imitated the next move so flawlessly Hound was sure they'd choreographed this before hand, "to get your, " he back-flipped and landed with a grin, "optics repaired."

"Well then," Sunstreaker slashed downward with the staff, "I'd have to look," he circled around, "at your butt—," he pivoted, "—ugly face."

It really was interesting to watch, and Hound couldn't help a grin of his own as he watched the two Autobots stalk and pivot around one another. They even took the game outside of the training bay, testing themselves on different terrain, to include the narrow support-beam that hung above the Autobot lounge. That had been Hound's favorite display, up to and including Sideswipe's spectacular plummet down to the floor, and Ratchet's apoplectic fury at having to reassemble the warrior's pieces. Hound didn't know if he'd ever before in his life seen an Autobot be so close to birthing an actual litter of kittens, and he had to admit that he'd been deeply impressed by Ratchet's tantrum, not to mention shocked that Sideswipe had been up and walking around the next day, as opposed to being rebuilt into a Hoover.

A cheer went up at a particularly well-executed move, but a crisply annoyed voice cut through the applause, making everyone but the twins look around. "How remarkable," Perceptor commented somewhat dryly. "We've arrived at the obligatory insult phase. I do imagine that witnessing this volley of witty banter will help the rest of us with our own sparring practice."

Hound grimaced; the scientist loathed being made to come down to the sparring ring, and Hound figured he wanted to get it over with rather than sit around and watch what he would consider to be a useless show of egotistical posturing.

Not that he'd be entirely wrong, either.

"Oh, shut yer face, Percy," Brawn barked from the other side of the ring. "This is fun."

"I beg your—I will do no such thing," Perceptor sputtered. "I simply wish to point out that useless such useless, boorish strutting cannot possibly—"

"Useless?" Sunstreaker halted, perfectly balanced on one foot, as was his brother. "I don't remember you thinking this was useless when I saved you from getting fragged last week."

"Oh, honestly," Perceptor was clearly annoyed, "I hardly understand how your amusing little sport—"

"Amusing little sport?" Sunstreaker snapped, optics glinting, and everyone grinned at the prospect of a brewing fight, though it was quenched before it could begin.

"Stop the madness," Prowl deadpanned, and somewhere in the back, somebody laughed. The crowd parted, and Prowl came to stand at the edge of the ring, arms crossed as he surveyed the scene with his flat, sardonic gaze. It really was impossible to tell what Prowl was thinking at any given time, though more often than not, Hound found himself surprised by a well-hidden inkling of the tactician's very real sense of humor.

This being, naturally, one of those times. "Congratulations," Prowl looked up at Sunstreaker.

"On what?" the golden warrior stared back down, optics narrowed with suspicion.

Well-founded, too. "In lieu of putting you in the brig for assault, I've promoted you to combat instructor."

"But I—" Sunstreaker started, then stopped, face clouded as he tried to understand what had just happened.

"Sideswipe," Prowl waved the red warrior away, "out. Bluestreak, in."

"What?" came the distinctive squawk of someone who had been very blissfully being ignored. "What, me?"

"No," Prowl slid him a flat stare, "the other Bluestreak."

"I – oh, wait," Bluestreak blinked, processing, and Hound couldn't quite stifle a smile at the gunner's very Sunstreaker-like thought process. Slowly, by visible degrees, it was sinking into Bluestreak's head exactly what was being asked of him. "Oh, because…see I don't really, I mean, I can _use_ a quarterstaff, but it's not the same as _really_ being able to use a quarterstaff, and besides, I—"

The silvery gunner had been backing away by the inch, hands spread to ward off Impending-Death-By-Sunstreaker, but his babbling was having little effect on Prowl, who merely pointed and said, "In. Now."

Defeated, Bluestreak trudged forth and climbed the ropes with all the enthusiasm of a prisoner-of-war going to smelter. Sliding between the top two strands, he stopped just inside the ring, and looked dubiously over at Sunstreaker. "Kay, uhm…" he looked the warrior up and down, just a flick of a gaze that told Hound and everyone else that Bluestreak was quite honestly a little unhappy about being in such close and violent proximity to Sunstreaker, "…now what?"

"Now," Prowl supplied in his best slow, parental tone, "you go to school." With that, he nodded to Sideswipe, who grinningly tossed his quarterstaff to a sort of queasy-looking Bluestreak.

"Well, what am I supposed to teach the little tubbo?" Sunstreaker scowled. "How not to trip when running away?"

A couple of people laughed, despite the nastiness of the comment, and Hound couldn't help but wince a little on Bluestreak's behalf. "No," Prowl explained, "you're going to teach him how to play that little game of yours."

"Oh, forget it," Sunstreaker lowered his staff and rolled his optics. "He can't learn that."

Bluestreak, meanwhile, was mouthing 'tubbo?' to himself, and obviously still trying to work out exactly what Sunstreaker meant by that.

"Of course," Prowl was saying. "I underestimated you as an instructor. Sideswipe—"

"Woah. Woah, wait," Sunstreaker backpedaled, indignant. "Sideswipe couldn't teach water to be wet."

"Well, if you can't teach Bluestreak—"

"I can teach Bluestreak," Sunstreaker snapped, and Hound smiled again at the longsuffering look on Prowl's face.

"Well," the tactician gestured, "then get started."

Bluestreak, however, looked like he wanted to be anywhere else but where he was standing. "Hey, look, Prowl, if it's all the same—"

"It's not," Prowl cut him off, and that was the end of that.

Resigned, and looking as though he were mentally writing his will, Bluestreak turned dolefully back around to face the yellow warrior, while everyone waited with expectant glee. Hound kept waiting for Prowl to send everyone off to their own sparring matches, but the tactician seemed content that everyone should watch, so naturally they did. Everyone did so love to see a good smearing.

Sunstreaker sighed dramatically. "Look, look," he strode over to Bluestreak, while the gunner flinched back against the ropes, "you're holding it all wrong. Like this – let go – _this_. There. Now – no, don't go back. Like this."

After a good minute of fumbling, he got the gunner sorted out, and backed off to let him get his footing. "I knew that," Bluestreak was muttering, though Hound was pretty sure that sparring with a quarterstaff was something the gunner had practiced at enough times to ensure he didn't poke himself in the optic. Hand-to-hand was not Bluestreak's forte.

"Ok," Sunstreaker was sighing again, most pathetically, "follow my lead."

At which point Bluestreak yodeled out an audio-splitting howl, and leaped forward to bash Sunstreaker upside the head with his upraised staff.

To which Sunstreaker gave the non-chalant reply of sweeping Bluestreak's stroke aside, and battering him back into a corner with several swift, successive blows. "What the slag?" he growled.

Bluestreak offered a watery smile. "Element of surprise?"

"Gah!" Sunstreaker backed off, though not before slapping the gunner upside the head. "Listening!" he stalked away, gesturing irritably. "Little tubby-bumpers who can't melee-fight their way out of a flock of mini-bots should be listening!"

"Hey!" came Brawn's indignant response, but everyone shut him up, so as not to spoil the show. They were all sure, Hound noted wryly, that Bluestreak was going to get his clock cleaned.

Prowl, a ghost of amusement of his face, merely stood watching.

"I am listening," Bluestreak puffed himself up, now that Sunstreaker was safely on the other side of the ring. "I just figured I'd surprise you, is all. I mean, that's what warriors do, right? And I don't understand what good this is doing me anyway. I mean, I really should let one of the melee warriors get up here – maybe Sideswipe, seeing as how he was doing so good, and this is your game, you know, between brothers, and I really don't want to intrude—"

"What good it's doing you?" Sunstreaker caught onto that part, and repeated it. Optics narrowing a little, though more with incredulousness than irritation, he tilted his head. "You don't know what good it'll do you? Are you joking?"

"Well," Bluestreak looked around, unsure how he'd offended the warrior this time, and looking as though he'd really, really like to find a way out of the subsequent skid-beating he was about to take as a result, "well, yeah. I mean," he shrugged, and returned his attention to Sunstreaker, "I'm a gunner. I mean, I don't do this stuff much, right?"

"You're a warrior, aren't you?" Sunstreaker asked, voice a little too calm for Hound's liking.

Bluestreak blinked. "Yes?" he tried.

Good answer. "Well," Sunstreaker informed him, "warriors don't hide behind guns."

To Hound's dismay, Bluestreak snorted, and the green tracker winced a little. "I don't hide behind a gun," Bluestreak shot back, his door-panels stiffening with pride. "I think I do all right with a weapon, and I don't call it hiding."

"No?" Sunstreaker asked. "Shoot me then." He tossed his staff to the side, where it rolled away with a clatter.

Again, Bluestreak snorted, though this time in alarm. "Shoot you?" he cast about, a little wildly, though nobody seemed likely to help him. "I'm – I mean, I meant what I said and all, and I don't really see how shooting you would prove your point, and besides that, Ratchet's finally in a good mood, and I'd hate to –" he darted a glance sideways and back again "—well, at least it wouldn't be Sideswipe this time, so I guess that wouldn't be so bad, but I'm still, no way—"

"Shoot. Me." Sunstreaker leveled the gunner with a look, and Bluestreak looked as though he'd swallowed his vocalizer.

The gunner tossed a worried glance at Prowl, who merely stared blandly back, then cast about the room, imploring someone to speak up and help him out of the jam he was obviously in. Hound could just about read the thoughts whirring through the gunner's head: no one in their right mind scratched Sunstreaker, and _no one_ sane at all thought of shooting him – may as well go all the way and gouge a dent in his glossy hood. Hound saw the gunner's hand twitch slightly, and Hound could all but hear him ticking off the routes of escape.

But then again, even poor Bluestreak didn't want to look like a coward, not in front of such a crowd. Slowly, dispiritedly, he lowered his staff to the ground, and summoned his rifle from subspace. Looking like a rabbit about to bolt for its hole, the gunner raised his weapon and took half-hearted aim. "I don't really want—"

"Shoot!"

Bluestreak tossed off a shot, which Sunstreaker didn't even have to dodge. The bolt singed the ground somewhere to the left of Sunstreaker's right foot, and the warrior looked boredly down at the scored ground, before turning an irritated look in Bluestreak's direction. "I told you," he said, "to shoot me. Me. Not the ground. Much as it might hurt your face when you fall on it, it is not the enemy."

"But you're not the ene—"

"I'm not?" Sunstreaker looked quite suddenly predatory.

"N-no," Bluestreak backed up, only to find out he couldn't go any further. "I hope?"

"Don't hope. Shoot. And don't," Sunstreaker added, "make me come shoot that weapon for you—"

With sudden speed, Bluestreak brought his rifle to bear, and snapped off a clean shot, which caught Sunstreaker across the shoulder even as the warrior spun away. Bluestreak blinked, surprised at his own daring, but one blink was all Sunstreaker needed to recover himself and, so quickly Hound almost didn't see it, he leaped across the ring, threw Bluestreak to the ground, and pinned him.

Knifetip to the gunner's throat, (and from where he'd pulled the weapon, Hound couldn't tell), the yellow warrior leaned close, his optics glittering like snow.

"I – uh," Bluestreak managed to choke out. A trickle of energon leaked out from under the knife-tip. "I – sorry."

Prowl did nothing; everyone else took his lead, including Sideswipe, who seemed very interested by the whole thing.

"Sorry?" Sunstreaker repeated, voice laced with scorn. "Who are you talking to?"

Bluestreak looked at Sunstreaker as though he'd fried his circuits. Squirming a little, though unable to get away from the prick of the knife, he replied, "Uh –" he coughed, "—you?"

"Who," Sunstreaker dug the knife in a little deeper, making Bluestreak's optics widen with shock, "are you talking to?"

Still, Prowl did nothing, and Hound figured he knew why, even if some of the others were starting to fidget. If Sunstreaker had been enjoying himself by tormenting Bluestreak, the tactician would have stopped it; but he wasn't. He was getting at something, something that Bluestreak very often forgot, and in ways had never learned at all.

"Uh," Bluestreak gasped, squirming all the more, though the much-larger Sunstreaker had him squarely pinned. "Talking," he managed, looking for all the world as though he thought he were talking to a loony, "to Sunstreaker."

Still the knife probed deeper, enough to nick a small, neat slice in the gunner's neck, and Bluestreak gasped, though more out of surprise than pain, as Sunstreaker wasn't really hurting him much. "Who are you talking to?"

At once, the light seemed to go on in Bluestreak's processor, and he kicked out a leg. "Enemy!" he coughed, and immediately Sunstreaker drew back.

Coughing, his one free hand massaging his neck, Bluestreak stared in shocked silence while the warrior sat back on his heels. Knife blade brought close to his face in thought, as though he might tap the end of it against his face, Sunstreaker commented, "Gun didn't do you much good, did it?"

"No," Bluestreak answered immediately, happy to have the correct answer.

Knees still pinning Bluestreak down, Sunstreaker smiled at his victim. "So," he asked in his most patronizing tones, "is melee fighting good for something then?"

"Yes," Bluestreak nodded virorously. "Yes, yes, absolutely, I see, really. I get it – warrior stuff. I agree, totally, for real."

"Warrior stuff?" Sunstreaker paused, slightly affronted. "What does that mean?"

"Sunny," came a different voice, and Hound could feel the entire room shift its focus to where Sideswipe stood. The red warrior smiled. "Let the nice gunner go. Remember that we like the gunner," he nodded, still smiling. "He watches our back, and keeps us from being dead."

"Shut up, Sideswipe," Sunstreaker grumbled.

"Yeah, uh, you know," Bluestreak interjected, "I didn't really mean to put you in a bad mood and all, and maybe it's for everyone's best interests if we all just took a break here and –"

"Shut up, Bluebell."

"Shutting up."

Bluestreak, a strained, placating grin plastered across his face, looked up at Sunstreaker as though half-waiting for the next blow, and half-attempting to ward it off with heroic levels of compliance with whatever Sunstreaker wanted. The yellow warrior, however, didn't seem to have Bluestreak's death in mind just yet, and he pushed himself gracefully to his feet, and pulled Blustreak with him. Blustreak, probably out of surprise at being helped to his feet more than anything, simply stood and blinked for a moment.

"He's good at this, you know." Hound looked over to the side to see the lean, blue-and-white form of the Autobot spy sidle up to rest his arms on the ropes.

"At what?" Hound chuckled. "Terrorizing Bluestreak?"

"No," Mirage replied, and gestured toward the ring, "this. He's a good teacher, actually."

Hound snorted wryly. "Yeah. Sunstreaker 101: scuff my gloss and die an unusually painful death."

That brought a faint smile out of Mirage, but it disappeared as quickly as it had shown itself. Mirage had always been like that, though more so of late, ever since that whole deal with Swindle. He looked back toward the pair in the ring, his face thoughtful, optics a little faraway. "You'd be surprised," he said quietly. "We sparred the other night."

"Oh?" That surprised Hound. "I'd have thought…you and Sunstreaker wouldn't, well," he searched his processor, and found no nicer way to say it, "…well, that you wouldn't be friends. Anymore."

"Well," Mirage said, and said nothing more as he concentrated on the ring, so Hound did him the courtesy of doing the same. Didn't mean he wasn't still surprised. He'd have thought Mirage and the twins would have kept a wide gulf between them after what Mirage had done to Sunstreaker, but oddly enough, the three acted as if nothing had ever happened. Hound knew Sideswipe had done something to Mirage, and he would have given his rear axel to find out what it was, but there was no way he was going to ask the spy. No way on Earth.

He turned back to face the 'match' going on in the ring, and resigned himself to watching in companionable silence with Mirage.

"Now," Sunstreaker was saying, "hold the staff right. Don't – yeah, like that. Ok, now the point of it is to do exactly as I do, which means that if I bring my right hand forward, you bring your right hand forward, and so on." He gave Bluestreak a steadying look. "Got it?"

"Got it," Bluestreak nodded with enthusiasm, and a look that Hound and everyone else knew that he absolutely did not get it.

"Don't attack me," Sunstreaker warned. "This isn't a fight – yet, anyway. Understand?"

"Yeah," Bluestreak nodded again, optics fastened on Sunstreaker's staff, as though waiting for it to jump up and bite him.

Sunstreaker studied the other Autobot, reading something, but whatever he saw, he didn't comment on. "Very simple rules," he said, his voice actually sounding calmer and less bossy as he explained. "Now…begin."

He took one step to the side, and Bluestreak hesitated, then followed, first in the wrong direction, then along the correct path, circling opposite Sunstreaker. The yellow warrior raised his staff above his head and brought it in a simple arc down to the ground in front of him, a move that Bluestreak copied awkwardly, and much too late. Stumbling over his own feet from concentrating so hard on the staff, he tried to regain balance, lost eye contact, and missed entirely the beginning of the next move.

"Don't look at the staff," the yellow warrior instructed.

"Well, how am I supposed--?"

"Don't look at it," Sunstreaker insisted, annoyance coloring his tone, though only a little. "Look at me. Look at my optics."

"Your optics, right…" Bluestreak bit his lip as he looked up, not really wanting, from the looks of him, to actually stare Sunstreaker in the face. Several times, he darted his glance back to the staff, then back at Sunstreaker, as though he really wanted to look at the object he was supposed to be copying, but had the equal desire to not incur Sunstreaker's wrath.

Again, he stumbled, and missed an entire move; Sunstreaker stopped and stood still.

"What? I'm sorry – I tripped – what was that?" Bluestreak blustered, standing awkwardly and wincing a bit, as though expecting Sunstreaker to pounce on him.

Strangely enough, though, he didn't. Frowning, Sunstreaker merely studied the gunner for another moment, which made Bluestreak all the more uncomfortable, before resting the butt of his staff against the ground. "You're looking at the weapon –"

"I know, I'm sorry, trying not to, really, it's just that I can't concentrate on what I'm supposed to do next if I can't see—"

"Bluestreak," Sunstreaker silenced the gunner, optics narrowed a bit, though miraculously, he didn't look irritated. "The weapon," he said, "isn't going to attack you. I am."

"You are?" Bluestreak asked in a small voice.

Sunstreaker ignored the question. "Weapons are things," he said, and threw his to the side. "I'm the weapon now. What are you going to watch?"

"Whatever comes flying at me first?" Bluestreak attempted, and a chuckle rippled around the room.

"My optics," Sunstreaker supplied the answer, and the room fell quiet again.

"But if—"

"Optics," he overrode the gunner again, "will always show you what the enemy is going to do an instant before he does it. Without fail."

"Oookay," Bluestreak didn't sound as if he thought such advice was ok at all. In fact, Hound suspected Bluestreak's philosophy fell somewhere closer to the idea that if he couldn't see his enemy's optics, that meant he was far enough away that the enemy couldn't see his, either, and that was a very good thing. "So," he asked, more than just a little dubious, "if I'm busy looking into the enemy's optics, how am I supposed to see what the rest of him is doing? Because honestly? It's the rest of him that's probably going to savagely attack me, right? And," he added, sort of hopefully, "that is important, right? I mean, not getting killed."

"Well, of course it's important," Sunstreaker gave him a flat look. "If you die in the next battle, that means I wasted my time teaching you this, and I hate wasting my time. So shut up and listen."

That sounded more like Sunstreaker, and Hound grinned. To his right, Mirage simply continued to watch.

"You look at his optics," Sunstreaker was explaining again, "to know what he's going to do. You know what he's physically doing by using your other senses. Your audios, your vibro-sensors, mostly. You sense shifts in the air," he waved an arm, "like this. We all talk about how mechs like Ravage or Mirage move silently, but they don't, not really. Everyone makes noise. Everyone disturbs the air, you see? Everyone touches the ground, and makes it vibrate. Understand?"

"Uh…yes." Bluestreak tried to follow Sunstreaker's explanation, but it wasn't exactly sinking in. The gunner furrowed his brow.

"You're watching my arm," Sunstreaker commented, still moving it through the air.

"Well," Bluestreak pointed out, "that's because it has a fist on the end of it."

A black hand flashed through the ropes, and Bluestreak jumped about five feet in the air, did a perfectly Olympian 180, and came down to face his attacker, doors flung wide with alarm. "What the--?"

But everyone was laughing, Sideswipe included, who had just missed grabbing Bluestreak's leg by about a half an inch. "Good reflexes, Blue. Peripheral vision," he tapped the side of his head, grinning, then pointed back at Sunstreaker.

The yellow warrior, to Hound's surprise, didn't look at all annoyed by Sideswipe's interruption. Instead, he gave his brother a half-smile, and said to Bluestreak, "Peripheral vision startles us more than direct line-of-sight." He tipped his head in Sideswipe's direction. "You were sluggishly following my arm, but when Side tried to grab your leg, you jumped pretty quick, even though you weren't paying any attention to him."

"Uh," Bluestreak commented intelligently, though by the look on his face, Hound could see that things were starting to make an inkling of sense for him.

"Instinct," Sunstreaker held Bluestreak's gaze, "will save you on the field. Peripheral vision, audio, vibration, your sixth sense, even smell…these things will save you. What lets you win a fight, is if you learn to read your enemy's optics. Now, close yours."

"My uh, optics?" Bluestreak looked very doubtful now, and took a wise step away from where Sideswipe was standing. The red warrior chuckled to himself. "Uh, why?"

Sunstreaker gave him an icy look, and Bluestreak complied without any more questions, though he looked as though he felt very stupid standing there in front of everyone with his optics closed, and a quarterstaff in his hand. "Now," Sunstreaker was saying, as he retrieved his staff from the floor, "everyone needs to be quiet." He looked to Prowl, who nodded, and everyone took that as the official signal to shut the slag up.

What seemed like utter silence descended, and Bluestreak started babbling out of sheer, blind discomfort. "Hey, is this like that part of Star Wars where Luke has to like, deflect laser beams with his light saber while he's wearing a helmet so he can't see? And hey cool! I get to be Luke, but does that make you Obi Wan Kenobi? Or would that be Obi Sun Streakobi? Ha! OUCH!"

Sunstreaker had maneuvered around and slapped the gunner upside the head.

"Ow, that hurt," Bluestreak looked a little wounded, but didn't dare open his optics. Instead, he gripped his quarterstaff and hoisted it to chest height, where he looked like he hoped to deflect as much as he could. "I feel stupid," he muttered, balling himself up. "Wait – don't comment on that."

Again Sunstreaker popped him, this time with the flat of his staff, though Bluestreak managed to deflect some of the blow with his shoulder. He opened his mouth, somewhere between frustration and the desperate desire to do whatever Sunstreaker wanted, so he could just get himself out of this mess, but at the last minute, the gunner thought better of it and stayed quiet.

Head cocked, this time Bluestreak was listening, and Sunstreaker nodded in silent approval. The yellow warrior crept to the side, feet scraping just slightly against the floor, and Bluestreak pinpointed the noise immediately. He shifted his stance to square himself against Sunstreaker's position, but the yellow warrior took advantage of Bluestreak's move, darted the other way, and popped him across the back.

Scowling, Bluestreak clenched his jaw, looking as though he suffered from embarrassment more than pain, and he went to listening again, though this time he made sure not to make noise when he moved. Head tilted, he caught some subtle sound of Sunstreaker's, and this time he stepped slowly and carefully around to face the yellow warrior. Two steps to the left, just opposite Sunstreaker, another, then a step back to the right. Sunstreaker crouched a little, and Bluestreak seemed to subconsciously do the same, his audios picking up what Hound's were now honing in on: the almost imperceptible slide of gears and pistons within Sunstreaker's legs, the scritch of his grip against the staff, and the give of the floor as the warrior shifted his weight. In a swift, whistling arc, Sunstreaker brought his staff up toward Bluestreak's hip, but to the gunner's complete and utter shock, Bluestreak blocked, and parried Sunstreaker's stroke to the side.

A cheer went up, and Bluestreak's optics flew open. "What – I did it. I did that!" He pointed at Sunstreaker, who was looking at him with something bordering on approval. "I – it worked! I heard you!"

The cheering died down, save a few grins and slaps on the back, as if the watching Autobots had been up the ones doing the work. Mirage canted a slight grin in Hound's direction, then went back to quietly watching.

"You see?" Sunstreaker said.

"Yeah, yeah," Bluestreak was nodding, though this time with genuine enthusiasm. "I felt the ground when you took a step."

"Exactly. Now," Sunstreaker readied his staff, "look at my optics."

Bluestreak copied his stance and did as he asked, and Hound couldn't help but note the new and slightly hopeful look on the gunner's face. Slowly, methodically, as if following some internal cadence, Sunstreaker began to maneuver the staff; first, he raised his left hand off the shaft, then he turned the staff to the vertical position. Back down to horizontal, then traded to his left hand, right hand off the staff. Vertical, horizontal, shift. Forty-five degree angle, horizontal, shift, repeat. Forty-five degrees back and down, up and forward, shift, repeat. Pass behind his back, over his head, twist in mid-air, then back to vertical.

He never moved his feet, and kept the routine so simple and balanced that a stranger would have thought he was either fooling around, or had no idea how to actually use a quarterstaff. But Hound could see what he was doing, because, though he was concentrating with all his might, Bluestreak was actually managing to follow the warrior's routine. Optics locked onto the warrior's optics, Bluestreak moved as he moved, sometimes a little behind, but sometimes so very close to mirroring Sunstreaker that Hound could see that the gunner was starting to understand.

The whole room had grown quiet, watching the display, and Mirage said so softly that Hound almost didn't catch it, "He likes this."

"Likes what?" Hound asked in a low voice, unable to look away from the ring.

"This part," Mirage replied, "the part where you start to get it. He's a good instructor."

Hound had to admit that it was true. He'd been watching the supremely focused concentration on Bluestreak's face, and hadn't noticed until now that Sunstreaker, far removed from his usual, peevish look, actually had an appearance of satisfaction. He was concentrating, too, but it was with a kind of hopeful anticipation, as though he knew that what he was drawing out of Bluestreak was very difficult to maintain, and it was almost as if, to Hound's very great surprise, Sunstreaker very much wanted the gunner to succeed. It was a surreal dance, between the two: the awkward, fearful gunner performing this graceful routine, and the surly, self-centered warrior who was doing everything in his power to make sure that the gunner did not fail.

Maybe it was Sunstreaker's unspoken hint of confidence in Bluestreak; maybe it was the unusual patience that the yellow warrior had shown. Hound didn't know. But whatever it was, was causing Bluestreak to actually move with some bit of athletic grace, and to actually mirror the warrior's moves. One turn left, switch, one turn right, then back to center, and turn to vertical.

Sunstreaker stopped. Bluestreak blinked, poised. The warrior offered a little smile, and said, "That's it."

A whoop went up, and everyone started clapping and laughing, and Hound was sure he heard more than one, 'Holy crap, he did it!', but nothing was more satisfying than the look of astonished pride on Bluestreak's face. Relief flooded his optics, followed by shock, and quickly covered over by a wide-opticked grin.

"Holy cams – I did it, I…did it." The gunner grinned, mouth open, staring at Sunstreaker as though he were waiting to wake up from some dream and remember he was just dumb old Bluestreak who couldn't play a game of Mirror to save his life. But he didn't wake up, and it wasn't a dream, and instead of the whole thing fading away, it was clinched by Sunstreaker, who strided over, gave the gunner an amiable pat on the shoulder, and leaped out of the ring.

Bluestreak was still non-plussed. "Holy…holy slag, I did it. Side, did you see that? Smokescreen?" Grinning, he turned to accept his congratulations from the rest of the Autobots, and babbling at a hundred miles an hour about how he could hear Sunstreaker move, and how he'd started to see the subtle shifts in his weight, and how it made _sense_.

Beyond the laughing group, Prowl had taken Sunstreaker aside, and Hound couldn't hear what was being said, but he could guess what was passing between them. It was a good thing Sunstreaker had done for Bluestreak, and it didn't take a genius to see that Prowl approved. The tactician didn't pat the warrior's arm, or even so much as smile at him, but Hound could tell by the warrior's light, easy stride that, as he walked away, he was feeling pretty pleased – and pretty well appreciated.

"Well, that was something," Hound commented as he and Mirage made their way toward the exit. "I'll wager Bluestreak's feeling about ten miles tall right about now."

"Yeah," Mirage agreed, with a rare, low chuckle, "I know the feeling."


	5. Broken Things

The dim of the bay pressed in around the medic, dusting the corners with shadow while he worked. The beds lay empty for the first time in weeks, their monitors bowed like sleeping sentries beside them, resting for a time while the silence held. The silence never held, not for long, but it was good while it lasted, and Ratchet soaked in the restive peace of the bay as he checked the last of the other Autobot's systems.

"And your linkage?" he asked, his voice echoing softly in the still.

"Fine," Sideswipe shrugged, and leaned back on his arms. Sitting on the edge of the berth, he swung his legs slightly, his heels just clicking off of the metal sides of the bed.

"What about your transform relays?" the medic frowned at the monitor's display. "You said you were having some trouble with those."

"Fine," Sideswipe answered again, and gave off an exasperated little sigh, not that Ratchet blamed him really, since the medic had been repeating his questions long after he'd been satisfied with the results. He didn't know what made him do it, but there was something about the red warrior's final diagnostic that Ratchet just couldn't let go. There was just a finality to it, something that Ratchet just couldn't let pass, and it made him want to keep the warrior in the bay indefinitely, though he knew that just wasn't sanity talking.

With a headshake and a sigh, he set the monitor down on the table, and looked Sideswipe over visibly, perhaps for the tenth time that evening. "Reflexes?"

"Fine."

"Headaches gone?"

"For three weeks."

"Nightmares?"

Sideswipe uttered a sharp sigh, and looked off toward the far wall, obviously not wanting to answer this one. He hated this one. Ratchet had made a point of asking him the same question every week for the last two months, but no matter how often he asked, he always got the same macho, posturing answer. Red chestplate gleaming in the halflight, Sideswipe puffed himself up and said with almost convincing nonchalance, "I don't have nightmares."

"You did," Ratchet countered, cranky now, and frankly as tired of this conversation as Sideswipe was. The warrior had progressed nicely since the incident with the boulder, and even more nicely since that whole mess with Sunstreaker and the nightmares had been cleared up, and now all the medic had to do was this last cursory check-up, and he could pronounce the warrior free and clear of all obligatory diagnostics. At least until the next time he got himself plastered all over the landscape, which would probably be sooner than Ratchet cared to think, and _that_ thought made him all the more eager to kick the warrior out of the bay and consequently out of his blessed sight for at least the next twelve hours.

Except that he couldn't. He didn't know why.

Again, Sideswipe gave off an almost theatrical sigh. "Ratchet, I'm fine. I don't dream. I beat Sunny in two sparring matches out of three yesterday, and I'm back to my old self." He gave the medic an almost pitiful look. "Really. Honestly. Honestly with sugar on top, plus a few kittens and all other things nice. Now can I go?"

"Don't be impertinent," Ratchet grumbled, and leaned back against the other berth. Hand scrubbing at his face, he gave Sideswipe another visual once-over, looking for Primus-knew-what, while the warrior watched him with a slightly wary expression.

A long moment passed. The shadows grew thick in the corners as silence rolled over the room, eddying like a fog around the soft hum of the far console, around himself, and around the fidgeting warrior before him. Away down the hall, somewhere in the lounge, Ratchet could hear the muffled sounds of laughing and carrying on, but the noise seemed miles away, so far removed from himself and the other mech that it seemed they were in a different world. Quietly, Sideswipe watched him, waiting, and the warrior's infinite patience with the medic made Ratchet feel all that much more remote. He was sure another Autobot would have spoken up by now, would have asked him what was wrong, or at least just said his name to prompt him out of his reverie, and that would have brought him back to his normal, brisk, and comfortably businesslike self. He would have shaken himself from his trance then, ejected the other Autobot from his bay, and busied himself with finding a friend and a laugh and a good, stiff drink.

But Sideswipe did not speak up. The lad never did.

"Is it all settled, then?" Ratchet heard himself ask, and it took him a good moment to make sense out of his own question.

"Settled?" Sideswipe asked, and even bothered to look convincingly blithe.

Ratchet looked up, and brought the warrior into focus. He looked at him, measuring him, wondering just when this particular one had wormed his way into the medic's list of patients who had names. Not to be misunderstood - Ratchet knew all of their names, or at least most of them. Some he'd only scraped back together in the middle of a battle - nameless lads whose circuits he'd stitched back into working order just long enough for them to go out and get slagged again - and in a way, those were the easy ones. Harder were the ones he knew, the ones who could make him laugh one minute, and show up all bleeding to hell the next, while they stretched out their mangled fingers and pleaded for mercy. Oh yes, those ones were zesty fun alright, and it took all the concentration he had to block out their panicked faces long enough to patch them back to life. But the winners…the winners were the ones with names. They were the ones he couldn't block, no matter how he tried, and though he wouldn't admit it to anyone but himself, it was those names that sometimes made his hands begin to shake.

Bloody useless he was then, too. Fear would do that to a mech - would wipe him out if it could. Fear was a real, living thing, and Ratchet believed that with all his core. Which was why it made his life so damn, bleeding hard when it came to the insufferable Sideswipes of the world.

"Yes, settled," Ratchet replied with a bit of a grumble, after looking the red mech over a bit. "With Mirage, you cheeky little glitch, and stop side-stepping me."

"Mirage?" Sideswipe managed a look of pure virtue.

"Oh, knock it the slag off!" Ratchet slapped a hand down on the table, and watched with satisfaction as Sideswipe jumped a little. Fidgeting, the warrior gave him a dubious look, while Ratchet leaned in to level the warrior with a stare. "Now you tell me, you dodgy little shit, whether it's settled or not."

Sideswipe opened his mouth, but paused at Ratchet's look, and Ratchet was quite certain he was weighing the risk of trouble with Prowl against the surety of trouble with Ratchet. Jaw set to the side, the warrior regarded the medic, and Ratchet could all but see the neurons firing as the warrior tried to process whether Ratchet was setting him up. Prowl had tried for weeks to unearth the truth surrounding all the 'incidents' following Sunstreaker's betrayal, and though every Autobot knew that Sideswipe was all but honor-bound to wreak revenge on the traitors for his brother's sake, there was nothing Prowl had been able to do to prove that Sideswipe had done a thing. This had naturally irritated the tactician to no end, especially since his own pride was taking a beating over being outmaneuvered by Sideswipe, and Ratchet knew Prowl would love nothing more than to finally catch the warrior in admitting what he'd done. Which meant of course that Sideswipe knew this as well, and would suspect the medic of playing rat. He opened his mouth again, optics a little skeptical, and said carefully, "I don't have anything to settle with Mirage."

"And you better as hell not, you sparking bag of crap. I swear to Primus," Ratchet narrowed his optics, engine rumbling menacingly, "if I so much as see one non-battle-inflicted scratch on Mirage's sparkling white patina…"

Sideswipe leaned back as the medic leaned in, optics widening ever so slightly. "Woah, Ratchet, I never touched Mirage."

"Don't you 'woah Ratchet' me," the medic snapped, and leveled a finger between Sideswipe's optics. "And you better _not_ lay a driver on Mirage, or I will have your head as my newest and shiniest Christmas ornament. Comprende, Paco?"

Sideswipe knitted his metal brow, and Ratchet straightened, glaring. "Yes, Ratchet," the warrior offered, his tone almost a query.

The medic crossed his arms and leaned back as the silence descended again. Sideswipe stared at him, optics a steady blue, betraying nothing. Even his impatience had disappeared, as the warrior constructed his careful poker face. He was distinctively good at it, Ratchet noted, but the medic hadn't been hatched that spring, and he'd been around long enough to know that when Sideswipe's blithe mask was at its impenetrable best, it meant he had something to hide.

Arms still crossed, blue optics narrowing, the medic grunted a low, unconvinced 'mmph.' "You didn't touch Mirage."

"No."

"Funny," Ratchet said, "how you've all acted like everything's square between you."

Sideswipe, had he been a bit less wise, would have rolled his optics. Instead, he only gave his shoulder a little, insouciant shift, just shy of a shrug. "Like I said, there's nothing to settle with Mirage."

"Mmph," was the medic's reply, and they both knew what he meant by that.

"Look, Ratchet," Sideswipe sat forward a bit, and laced his fingers, elbows on his knees, "what do you want? I didn't do anything to Mirage, and I have no need to do anything to Mirage. It's not like I plan to send you any new customers. They screwed Sunny, they're sorry now, and it's over, alright? Over."

"Oh, it is," Ratchet gave the warrior a scathing look.

"It is," Sideswipe assured him, and sat up again, chin high, optics a frosted blue.

It made Ratchet want to hit him, that look. It held all the arrogance of a creature who saw nothing wrong with filling the medic's bay with suffering, demoralized Autobots. He'd set Powerglide on fire, for Primus' sake, and by the time Ratchet had gotten all the corrosive out of Warpath's systems, the minibot had been all but insensible with shrieking. He'd heard what Sideswipe had done to Cliffjumper and Tracks, too, and though Ratchet was at least relieved to know that he wouldn't have to physically put those two back together again, he could see in the way they hung their heads that Sideswipe had gotten to them on a deeper level. If any of them had missed the point that they were traitors of the worst kind, Sideswipe had ironed out their confusion. The red warrior was frighteningly good at getting straight to the bottom of things, and Ratchet had a feeling those five Autobots would be a while picking themselves back up again.

It bothered him, seeing that Sideswipe was capable of such a precise and professional kind of cruelty. What bothered him, too, was that of the five, Mirage alone showed no trace of what Sideswipe had done to him, and that left Ratchet feeling just a little bit uneasy.

"You know, it's funny," Ratchet said at length, "when I asked Mirage about it, he said the same thing."

"What's that?" Sideswipe asked.

"He said," Ratchet shifted, resettling himself against the berth behind him, "that there was nothing to settle between you."

"Well, good for Mirage," Sideswipe said evenly, "because there isn't."

"Dammit, Sideswipe!" Ratchet snapped, losing hold of his composure. "This is not a game!"

Surprised, the warrior drew back the slightest bit, optics clouded, and Ratchet at once swore at himself for losing his grip. He should have been able to drop it. Should have been able to forget.

But he couldn't. And he seethed instead, and stared at the warrior before him, who stared back through guarded optics, and said in a surprisingly light, straightforward tone, "Oh yes, it is. You badger me till I leak something, then run to Prime, and next thing we know, I'm standing in front of the review board with my hands chained behind my back, and my ass on fire from getting lit up by all of Prime's guilt-mongering."

Ratchet opened his mouth, choked, and stared, too many retorts jamming themselves at once in his vocalizer.

"Funny how things always come full circle, isn't it?" the warrior pressed. "And how it's always Sunstreaker and me that get stuffed with the bill for the party."

There was an angry gleam behind the warrior's blithe mask, and a cutting, honest sort of light to his optics that told Ratchet he was banging away at a nerve that the medic hadn't realized was still so raw.

"Oh, you think so," he countered, then stopped short, musing that it was still thus with the warrior: that though Sunstreaker had found a certain kind of peace throughout this whole affair, Sideswipe hadn't yet come to terms with what the others had done to his brother.

Frowning, Ratchet sat back again against the berth behind him, and wrapped his fingers around the ledge at his sides. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, while the warrior watched him with the look of an animal that's been baited out of safety, and backed against a precipice.

It was a horrible place to be, Ratchet knew with sudden clarity. He saw in the warrior's optics the look of someone whose friends had turned on him. He saw someone whose twin (and how could any of the Autobots even begin to know what that meant?) had stood in danger of being condemned by trial, only to be later condemned to execution by those who should have been his friends. No amount of toil from Sunstreaker could make up for what he had done, but when his punishment had been paid in full, how much did they still hate him? Enough to try to pay for his crimes themselves, with Sunstreaker's life. And Sideswipe had walked in on that, walked in and seen.

* * *

The medic shuddered inwardly, thinking on that day. He remembered being summoned to the scene, only to find Sunstreaker laying in a pool of his own fluids, watching with faraway optics as a battle raged overhead. Ratchet also remembered the disquieting look on Sideswipe's face, and the terrible calm with which he'd sat and held his brother while they waited for the medic to arrive. Ratchet remembered, though he'd tried not to thereafter, how the twins had suddenly looked so deserted there in the debris. Some burnt-out shells, some frag, a slick of fluid lay around them like a kind of moat, and the first thing Ratchet noticed, (and which he had tried so hard to forget afterward), was that Sideswipe had looked at him as though he'd never known him at all.

Prowl had gone back to the battle, leaving repairs in the medic's hands, which would be logical after all. And Ratchet was at once alone with a hunted warrior who looked at him with strange optics.

It wasn't as though Sideswipe didn't recognize him. He did. In fact, it was the fact that he _did_ recognize Ratchet that suddenly seemed to make the medic such a terrible, ugly threat.

He was in shock. That, Ratchet could see. "Alright, let me see," the medic had heard himself prod, trying to use his ages-honed brusqueness to punch through the shock barriers and allow him to get to work.

But Sideswipe was having none of it. Kneeling in fluid-stained mud, fingertips balanced against Sunstreaker's chestplate, Sideswipe seemed to hover between offense and defense. He said nothing, but his optics were blanched of color, and glowed white as a moon at dusking.

"Come on," Ratchet motioned with his fingers for Sideswipe to move aside, and made to step forward, but the look on Sideswipe's face made him suddenly freeze, as the medic at once realized that there was now more than a moat of blood between himself and the red warrior.

It was like watching a bad dream, in which everything suddenly turns wrong, and the turbodog who knew you and loved you and who slept at your feet had in the blink of an optic turned to put its teeth at your throat. Later, Ratchet realized it was just that Sideswipe had only been in shock, but that did nothing to get rid of the sick feeling that had so suddenly swept over him, or to erase the image of Sideswipe as he quite suddenly and unexpectedly raised his rifle.

Ratchet did not move. Jets screamed overhead, while volleys of canon fire sounded just over the rise, and a lone medic stood on just out of sight on the hillside, and tried very hard to stand still. _They turned on us_, the warrior's optics told him as plainly as if he'd spoken. _They turned on us, they turned on us, they turned on us_…It was like a shout on the frozen surface of the warrior's optics, stalling him, etching within him the primal law that he must savage or be savaged. _And you_…those optics said…_you are just like them…?_

There was the slight question behind the warrior's sheer dread - a slight hesitation - that showed Ratchet something he had not truly known before. He realized much later on how very much these warriors were creatures of instinct, not so far removed from the eat-or-be-eaten world from which all Transformer kind came. But he realized also - and was grateful to Primus and heaven above - that had it not been for the purity of their kind of instinct, he may not have had a chance to get past Sideswipe to help Sunstreaker before it was too late. Because although Sideswipe had become a panicked creature, and capable of great violence, he showed that barest look of recognition that told Ratchet of a most basic kind of trust. For it seemed that somewhere along the way, somewhere within the years of patching and re-patching the red warrior, Ratchet had, on some very basic level of the red warrior's programming, gained Sideswipe's trust. Because just at the edges of the warrior's panic, just there, at the rim of his shock, three words had also been coded into Sideswipe's very way of processing; and they said, _Ratchet will fix._

It was a strange realization for Ratchet to have, to think that the warrior had come to trust him on so primal a level. But he did not think of that then. He'd only lowered himself slowly, inch by painful inch, until he sat on his heels just out of the warrior's reach. Sideswipe had bristled at this, rifle steadily trained between Ratchet's optics, but the medic took care to move gradually, and to keep his optics on the warrior's face.

"Ok now…" he murmured, keeping his voice low despite the thundering of the battle overhead, and knowing he must not hurry. "Woah, Side...ok…"

Sideswipe didn't shake, or pant, or give any indication that he'd been spooked into his state of shock, but he remained unnervingly poised, and Ratchet could see how very afraid he was. Beside him, Sunstreaker only looked into the sky overhead, optics reflecting its same blue, face calm with waiting. _Ratchet will fix. Ratchet always fixes._

Slowly, the medic reached out one hand.

A sharp hiss. The warrior had moved to a crouch without the medic even seeing.

"Woah, Side, woah…" the medic paused, fingers sketched in plea, mid-air, "…woah…"

Fingertips rested lightly on the trigger, the warrior tensed, ready to fire. But his head was cocked now, as he listened, and hesitated.

Slowly, Ratchet reached a little further. "Woah, Side…it's ok…"

There came a small glimmer in the warrior's optics, a faltering, and the tip of the rifle lowered just so.

"It's ok," Ratchet soothed, and reached out the rest of the way. "It's ok…I'll fix it."

* * *

The medic never told the others about that part. They'd all run off like Prowl had told them to, and mired themselves later in guilt, so afraid of what Sideswipe would do to them that they'd forgotten already what they'd done to Sideswipe. They had remorse for Sunstreaker, sure, and after that business, everyone treated Sunstreaker rather better. In fact, some even muttered between small groups that what the Guilty Five (as everyone had come to call them) had done to Sunstreaker had actually been for the better, since now everyone secretly felt that things were square, and the Autobots' world could go back to a state of peace. The tension had been let off, like air out of the proverbial balloon, and everyone felt better.

Except for Sideswipe.

Oh, sure, everyone knew he'd deal out a little bit of payback; that much was expected, tolerated, and even looked on by some as necessary. There was no surprise, no feeling of shock. Even was even, and Sideswipe was only smoothing out the rifts after all. Besides, the Five had it coming.

So while the Autobots enjoyed the benefits of what the Five had accomplished (peace through tyrannical action), and Sunstreaker for once enjoyed no longer being the target of utter loathing, and the command structure enjoyed the fact that this whole debacle seemed to be over, there still remained Sideswipe, unresolved.

And the medic.

It suddenly struck Ratchet now, as he stared at the warrior before him, how much he truly did not know him. How much he did not understand what kept this mech before him so constantly in tune with his most primary instincts. Instant gratification, action without reason, pleasure without consequence: these were the things Sideswipe had always taken without apology. And yet…here he sat, patient as a stone, while he watched an old medic muddle through his troubled thoughts. And why?

No…Ratchet knew why. Now that he thought of it. And he knew why he couldn't quite yet let Sideswipe go.

_Ratchet will fix._

"You never gave them the chance to be sorry," Ratchet spoke up without even knowing what it was he would say.

"They are sorry," Sideswipe countered, voice flat. He didn't deny anything this time.

But the medic shook his head. "But you never asked them."

"I didn't have to." Sideswipe's optics flattened to the color of slate.

"But you could have."

The warrior frowned, not ready with a response to that. He stared back at the medic, chin not quite high, shoulders not quite rigid.

"You could have asked," Ratchet stated quietly. "Then you would have known."

"I don't ask for apologies," Sideswipe informed him.

To this, the medic shook his head. "No, you don't. But you can wait for them."

The warrior blinked at him, trying to follow him to where he was going, though Ratchet knew it went against the warrior's programming to do so. Bite the hand that betrays you; this is the thought of an untamed thing. Preservation through annihilation. If you cut down those who would cut you, they won't come back to hunt you in your sleep. This was how a true warrior was programmed, and Ratchet knew it. And yet, Sideswipe remained here in this bay, listening. And it struck Ratchet not for the first time how very much the red warrior trusted him.

"Because if you wait for an apology," Ratchet spoke up again, voice ringing softly in the still, "you'll know it's real, and not just something you intimidated out of someone."

Sideswipe narrowed his optics, either thinking, or angry, or both, and he asked, "Oh yeah? Well, what if there never is one? An apology. What if they're never sorry? What then, Ratchet?"

_Ratchet will fix._

The medic looked at the warrior, watched the lines in his face grow less hard as he dropped his mask a bit, and showed a glimmer of the helplessness he felt there. "Well, that's just it, son, isn't it?" Ratchet replied, metal brows knitted a bit. "That's not up to you. And that's what's eating you." He watched the mask slip a bit further, and saw a flicker of emotions there, something between fury and hopelessness.

"Nothing's eating me," the warrior muttered.

Ratchet crossed his arms.

"Besides," Sideswipe continued, optics a little brittle as he stared the medic in the face, "It was my right. Sunstreaker is my brother."

"Sideswipe," Ratchet put in as gently as he could, and only because he saw no other way to say it, "no mech has a right to vengeance."

"Thanks, _Prime_," Sideswipe snapped back, "I'll be sure to stick that in my craw next time a bunch of my noble Auto-pals decide to throw Sunstreaker to the wolves."

Ratchet held up a hand, knowing he was blowing this, and knowing he had no choice but to keep going. "I'm not trying to lecture you, Sideswipe. I know it sounds that way…"

"Scragging hell, it sounds that way," Sideswipe snarled, optics darkening. "A slagging lot you know what it feels like to have a brother, either. Pain in the ass son of a bitching brother. Don't act like you know how I feel."

Ratchet narrowed his optics, knowing he was supposed to snap back, knowing this was Sideswipe's way of squirming out of talking about what was really bothering him. But like hell if he was going to let him go that easily. "You're right," he told the warrior in an even voice, "we don't know how you feel. Because you never told anyone. Instead, you demoralized and injured those Autobots you think are so guilty, and you've started the cycle again. Because you just had to have your revenge."

Sideswipe's optics flashed. "So the frack what?"

"So, trash mouth," Ratchet replied smoothly, "you don't feel any fracking better. Do you?"

Sideswipe glared at him, all ice and hate.

"Do you, son?" Ratchet pressed, in a tone that demanded a reply.

Sideswipe dropped his head to look away.

Ratchet leveled him with a look, catching the corner of the warrior's optic. "Menasor hurt you, so Sunstreaker hurt Gears. So the Guilty Five hurt Sunstreaker, because Sunstreaker hurt Gears. Then you hurt the Five, because they hurt Sunstreaker. And now, who will come hunting for you?"

"I can take care of myself," Sideswipe mumbled.

"No," Ratchet shook his head, optics sad, "you can't. You can't even stop hurting now."

"Whatever."

"You know, you talk about the cycle with such righteous conviction," Ratchet told him, "and it's not like you're wrong, either. But you don't have the whole of it, son. You don't understand that you're just as much a part of your own cycle of hate as all these Autobots and Decepticons around you."

Here the warrior should have made some nasty retort, and Ratchet even waited, just to give him a chance. But Sideswipe said nothing, and only stared down and to the left.

"And who really gets the bill for the party, as you put it?" Ratchet went on. "You think it's you and Sunstreaker who pay, and a lot of times you do. But Mirage paid. And Cliffjumper. And the others. And Gears paid. And even the Decepticons pay. And all because of this never-ending feud of the clans. Decepticon clan hurts Autobot clan, and Autobots make war. Autobots make war, so Decepticons fight back. Or was it the other way around? Who knows, and who gives a slag?"

"But wait, there's more," Ratchet continued, when Sideswipe said nothing. "What about the clans within the clans? Clan Lamborghini steps on Clan Minibot. So Clan Minibot declares war, scores a hit, and Clan Lamborghini gets its vengeance. Are we starting to see a pattern here? And how long has this been going on? Days? Weeks? Millennia? You tell me, son."

The medic's tone once again demanded a reply, and Sideswipe, compliant as ever with the medic, answered in a flat tone, "It's always gone on."

"That's right," Ratchet agreed, then said with utter conviction, "Sideswipe, I want you to listen to me. Look at me." The warrior obeyed, and lifted his head. "When you stop taking vengeance, vengeance will stop taking you. Vengeance belongs to Primus. Let it go."

Sideswipe opened his mouth, optics darkening. But he said nothing, and closed his mouth again, face set in stone.

"You won't find peace until you do," Ratchet told him.

The two stared at one another. "They owed me," Sideswipe said plainly.

"Yes, but who are you to make them pay? They owe you," Ratchet said, "but you can let them go. Let them off the hook. And let them answer to Primus himself for what they've done."

Now Sideswipe fell truly quiet, and looked away again. He sat for a moment, utterly still in the way only a warrior can be, before asking in a small voice, "And what do I do if I've already taken vengeance?"

"Change your mind," Ratchet answered him simply, wondering where he'd learned all this himself. "So that even if someone takes revenge on you, you don't answer it with vengeance. Vengeance uninvited can't come back."

Sideswipe uttered a soft snort. "What, now you want me to live a life of turning the other cheek?"

"Well, Primus forbid that you should find true nobility as an Autobot," Ratchet came back, "but yes, I do."

"But Sunstreaker's my brother," Sideswipe gave his argument one last try, "and I can't-"

"Can't break your infamous cycle you keep going on about?" Ratchet asked him. "You want the moral high ground? You want to rant about always getting stuffed with the bill for all the ugliness that goes on at the Ark? Fine. Then take the bill, and don't dish a bill back out. Because then you really will be innocent. And you'll be able to slagging sleep at night."

"Primus," Sideswipe muttered, and scrubbed a hand over his face, looking suddenly weary.

"Sideswipe," Ratchet said, "I know he's your brother, and I know what he means to you. So defend him. Fight alongside him with all you've got. But just don't take revenge for him, because you can mark my words when I say that revenge has never saved a single soul from pain."

And that was the truth, clear as the silence around them. And he could see that Sideswipe understood. And then, just as Ratchet thought the warrior would do his best to sidle away and escape out of the medbay, he did instead the most startling thing. He looked the medic in the face, and he began to talk.

He told Ratchet about that day on the hillside, as if the medic hadn't been there. He told him, in broken words, how it felt to be so shocked. To see the merry blue sky, and his friends standing there, cheering with their backs to him. He told Ratchet about the shock of cold that went through him, and how he hardly remembered what he did next, except that he was pounding and pounding away at the Decepticons, even though what he really wanted to do was to pound and pound away at Mirage, and Tracks, and Cliffjumper, and Powerglide, and Warpath. He told Ratchet, how their names had been etched into his processor, as if in lines of cold light, and how quite suddenly his world had been turned upside-down, and he no longer understood who he could trust, and who he couldn't.

He seemed ashamed, somehow, of those moments. The warrior seemed to think that he should have kept himself together, shouldn't have gone into a panic, shouldn't have lost all senses and feeling. But who can explain what it is to be a brother? So he didn't even try, and just told Ratchet what it was like to see the medic approaching, as if Ratchet hadn't been there. He told Ratchet - and the medic knew then that Sideswipe held him in utter faith - of how he had been afraid.

It was as though the warrior was speaking in a trance, and it would not have been so strange, except that the whole time he was talking, he was looking Ratchet full in the face, as though his life depended on it. He told him, without flinching, of what he'd done. He described how he'd waited, how he'd felt nothing but a cold, cold hate, and how he'd watched for just the right time. And then he told Ratchet, step by step, what he did to each of them. How he burned Powerglide and took away his wings. How he sabotaged and humiliated Tracks. How he'd tormented Warpath, and crushed his pride. How he'd demoralized Cliffjumper and taken his dignity. How he'd destroyed Mirage.

And as he talked, Ratchet could see the burden fading from his optics just a little, and what was more, he could see the warrior's face grow less like that of a cornered animal, and more like the face of an Autobot, who has character, and who knows the line between right and wrong.

When at last he'd talked himself out, the warrior sat still again, tired and still troubled, though only a little. "So…" he offered a weak shrug, then trailed off, though he still looked Ratchet in the optic.

Ratchet supposed he should have wanted to give the red warrior a good beating for what he'd just admitted to. But he supposed that would have defeated the whole point of what he'd just been telling him. Besides, it wasn't as if he hadn't already known the truth - it was just hearing it out loud that somehow made it more real, and made the medic's finger's twitch a bit, with the loving wish to wrap themselves around the warrior's neck.

But he did no such thing, of course. Because, in the end, though he wouldn't admit it to a soul, Sideswipe meant a hell of a lot more to him than most of the other Autobots combined, including those Guilty Five. Which was why he hadn't been able to let him go tonight. He'd known there were things he'd needed yet to fix. And maybe it should have been Smokescreen's job, because Ratchet was just no good at this sort of thing. But somewhere along the way he'd sort of adopted this warrior, or maybe the warrior had adopted him; he didn't know. But he did know that, somehow, this sorting out of the warrior's wounds was a job meant for Ratchet, and Ratchet alone. Somehow, at some point, he'd accepted that responsibility, and he knew now it was one he'd have until the day he was deactivated.

Well, hell, he'd rebuilt the mech from the ground up more times than he could count. He may as well have been the warrior's creator. And may as well see to him as though he were.

"So now what?" Sideswipe asked, when Ratchet had said nothing for too long. "You can rat me out to Prowl if you want, I guess. I deserve it."

The warrior was being truthful, but there was that questioning tone again. "What do you think?" Ratchet asked, watching him.

The warrior shrugged. "Like I said, I deserve it."

Ratchet tipped his head just a bit. "There are the Five to think about, too."

"Yeah," Sideswipe said, and dropped his gaze, nodding, knowing what he needed to do.

"Sideswipe," the medic said, "I'm not bringing all this up just to be a pain in your ass."

"Yes, you are," Sideswipe countered, though he didn't mean it.

"It's more like you're a pain in my ass, if we're being honest," Ratchet came back.

The warrior looked up. "I'm just providing you with job security, Ratchet," he said with a perfect mask of innocence.

"Likewise, you little shit."

"Touche."

Ratchet smirked, and pushed away from the table. "And now I've kept you from your double life as a villain for too long." He flipped his scanner back into its compact form, and put it away on a nearby table. "Go on. You're cured. Hominus dominus."

Slowly, almost hesitantly, the warrior got down from where he'd been sitting, and stretched himself a little, before giving himself a thorough shake. "Think you'd miss me if I was gone?" he asked unexpectedly.

Ratchet snorted, mostly to cover his surprise. "No, I wouldn't miss you, you slag-faced little punk, because I wouldn't let you die. I've brought you back from the dead more than once, and I'll do it again."

He was a little surprised at the heat in his own voice, and even Sideswipe let out a low whistle. "Wow. Good thing you don't have a Primus complex or anything."

"Shut up, Sideswipe, you little pipe-sucker."

Sideswipe backed away, hands up in mock defense, a little grin stretched across his weary face. "Yes, master Jedi."

Ratchet grunted, and busied himself with cleaning a set of spotless tools. "Get out of here, slagging Padawan learner."

"Yes, master," Sideswipe repeated himself, offering a mock bow before he turned for the door, though of course he stopped just at the threshold, as he so often did when he had just one last thing to say. Fingertips lightly on the door jam, he turned back, and stood for a quiet moment while Ratchet labored uselessly at his tools. "I'm sorry, Ratchet," he said, after a pause.

"I know," Ratchet replied, without looking up.

And then, with a soft hiss of the door, Sideswipe was gone.

* * *

Ratchet never did tell Prowl about what the warrior had said. He knew the tactician _knew_ the warrior had done those things, but if he'd had _proof_, he could have finally given Sideswipe the punishment he deserved. But somehow, in the medic's estimation, punishment wasn't what Sideswipe needed just then. So he kept their conversation to himself, and even though Prowl obviously suspected what the medic knew, Ratchet never said a word.

He also never knew if Sideswipe had actually come right out and apologized to the Five, and he didn't feel like asking. But he did notice, one day, a conversation between Sideswipe and Powerglide, as the warrior asked the mini-bot plane for tips on flying. He was also seen listening to Warpath's war stories with what looked like a convincing amount of interest, and was witnessed to even listen with a straight face as the mini-bot gave the tall warrior advice on close-combat. Tracks seemed to be trickier, and Ratchet never did see whether Sideswipe approached the blue warrior or not. But Raoul suddenly began appearing at the Ark again, and Tracks seemed a whole lot happier, not to mention greatly relieved, as though the weight of the world had been taken off his shoulders. And the same was true for Cliffjumper, who had finally begun to build some of his old bravado back up again. Ratchet never knew what Sideswipe might have said to him, but Cliffjumper's old strut came back, and before long he was as loudmouthed as ever.

As for Mirage, things had gone better for him from the start. Unlike Sideswipe, Sunstreaker (yes, Sunstreaker, if you can believe it) had actually grasped the concept of forgiveness long before Sideswipe's conversation with the medic, and the yellow warrior and the spy had seemed to patch things up almost as quickly as they'd fallen apart. So for Mirage, there hadn't been any real lingering effects of what Sideswipe had done to him, except, perhaps, for all the broken things in his room.

It was late one evening, after Sideswipe had pulled a double shift on guard duty, that Ratchet happened to catch him sitting with Mirage in Wheeljack's lab. The inventor was just as pleased as pie, helping with this suggestion for glue, and that suggestion for improving a power source, while both Sideswipe and Mirage listened and worked attentively under his instruction on how to rebuild what seemed to be some kind of broken timepiece. Leaning against the door jam, Ratchet paused to watch, and quietly, Optimus Prime paused to watch with him.

"Interesting," was the commander's soft comment, and Ratchet quirked a half-smile.

"You could say that." He watched Sideswipe fiddling clumsily with a delicate plate of what looked like gold, trying with all his care not to bend it, while Mirage and Wheeljack both hovered and scolded. Patiently, Sideswipe held the plate in place, enduring with utmost calm a most uncharacteristic tirade from Mirage, who wanted it positioned _just like that_.

"Never figured Sideswipe for a fine-scale artisan," Prime commented.

Ratchet snorted. "Me either." It was fairly obvious that the warrior wasn't cut out for this kind of work. He didn't have the hands for it, to begin with, and that wasn't even mentioning his brand of patience which, while suited to long hours of war or pain or mind-numbing guard duty, did not prepare him for holding this thin sheet in gold in perfect alignment for sixty seconds while the adhesive dried.

"This is your doing, I suppose," Prime said.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Ratchet retorted.

"Uh huh."

"Sideswipe…Sideswipe, no," Mirage was saying from inside, his rich baritone rife with concern as he corrected the warrior's grip, his fine, noblemech's hands trying vainly to show Sideswipe's poor, oversized fingers how to delicately affix a piece of gold wire and solder it gently into place. The warrior's hands were meant for tearing down, not building. But he tried.

"Heh," Prime smiled behind the mask. "This is actually sort of funny."

It would have been, to be honest, if Ratchet hadn't felt so secretly proud of Sideswipe just then. "You want funny?" he snapped, feeling the moment deserved a bit more respect than Prime was giving it. "How 'bout I shove my foot up your ass? How'd that be for funny?"

But the Autobot commander only chuckled, and gave Ratchet an amused look. "My friend, I'm not laughing at Sideswipe."

Narrowing his optics, Ratchet regarded the commander sideways.

Eyeing him back, Prime's optics crinkled at the corners. Ratchet could tell he was pretty well pleased with himself. "I was just wondering," he said airily, "when you'd become such a denmother."

"Kiss my ass, Prime," Ratchet scowled, and went back to watching the other Autobots work.

"No, really," Prime pressed, obviously amused, and sounding as though he were only half joking, "did it happen all at once, or did it take some time for the Autobots' most hardened criminal to worm his way into your cold, black spark?"

"Eat slag and die, Prime," Ratchet growled, arms crossed.

"Because the Ratchet I know," Prime went on, ignoring the medic's darkening look, "would have said he was a medic, and not a damn shrink."

"Oh, is that so?" Ratchet snorted, arms crossed as he glared up at the commander.

But Prime was watching the others again now, with that soft, tired kind of expression he often wore at the end of the day. "He'll be ok now, won't he?"

Ratchet sighed, and looked back into the engineer's bay, where Sideswipe was doing his best to fix the things he'd broken. "I think so," the medic said.

Prime straightened, put a hand on Ratchet's shoulder. "Well done…" he said, then canted his head to give the medic a most wicked look, "…Padawan."

"Padawan?" Ratchet retorted. "And just who the hell are you calling a Padawan, you mangy-plated dock worker?"

But already Prime had turned away, and was sauntering down the hallway as though another great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. Turning a corner, he glanced back at the medic, winked, and disappeared. Though before he was gone, Ratchet would have sworn to his Maker he heard the commander whistling.


	6. The Long Night

**The Long Night**

Thundercracker fidgeted and chafed in his restraints as he followed his guard down the long, dusky hallway. Beside him, Starscream stalked and moaned and huffed as best he could, but it was funny how the Air Commander's words seemed even more hollow inside the halls of the Ark, echoing uselessly down the orange-walled passage.

"…useless little thing of a mechanoid," Starscream was busily pissing and moaning with all the imperious pomp and snoot of someone who was really desperately bluffing. "Who _ever_ designed the first minibot should have had their central processor gutted, smelted, and hammered into an oil-pan liner before they could belch out the rest of the dreadful line. I mean really," he snorted, "who are you supposed to scare, anyway? And could you more fully typify the meaning of the word 'ugly'?"

"Ok, Sunstreaker," the brownish one muttered – Brawn, maybe – and the red one let out a snort.

"Well, now that's just mean," he quipped, and titled a grin back in Starscream's direction.

"Yeah, Brawn," came Ironhide's amused drawl from behind them, "Windcharger's got a point. Even Starscream ain't that vain."

"Got no reason to be," Windcharger strutted on in front. "Too ugly."

At which point Starscream treated them all to a long, shrill rant about air superiority, height superiority, and general Starscream superiority. Not that Thundercracker disagreed on the subject of being a member of a superior race, but he obviously would have had a few things to say against that last point, had he been in the talking mood.

Wings rigid, back stiff, he marched on and felt his disgust grow stronger with every step he took into the mountain. It wasn't like this at the Decepticon headquarters, where there were murky windows and floods of bluish light; it was somehow not quite so solid there, and the halls weren't buried under tons of looming rock. It was…creepy down here. And he knew that Starscream felt the same.

"…I was pride of the Cybertronian War Academy, prince among the upper echelon of Polyhex—"

"Oh, you an' Mirage would get along real nice then," Ironhide chuckled. "Now in you go."

They'd arrived at a wide doorway, which had slid aside with an ominous hiss. Thundercracker blinked into the dim for a moment, taking in the soft flicker of the watch-station monitor, the row of block cells, and the featureless walls and ceiling, which stamped out any hope of escape, since there were no openings. The only other door he saw was a trapdoor at the far end of the brig, and he made a mental note of it as he stepped up onto the brig floor.

"Don't be shy now," Windcharger was chiding them. "Got some real comfy rooms for you, complete with cable TV, hot tub, and turn-down service before bed-time. The night watch will be bringing the mints."

"What about our injuries?" Starscream snapped, as he was prodded into the nearest cell, Thundercracker after him.

"Aw, y'ain't got no injuries," Ironhide groused as he yanked off their wrist-cuffs. "Jus' cuz you get shot down don't mean you gotta whine about it."

Starscream snarled as the energy bars snapped up in front of his face. "Well, you try skipping off the treetops at a few hundred miles an hour and see how you like it. The physical ordeal of impact—"

"Looked like you were walking fine to me," Brawn interjected.

"You obviously have no comprehension," Starscream fumed, "of the delicate inner workings of so fine a flier as I—"

"Aw, yer jus' mad cuz you got tree branches stuffed up yer butt," Ironhide rolled his optics, and Thundercracker thought Starscream was going to burst something for sure.

"This," he stamped his foot, "is barbaric!"

"Primus," Windcharger made a face toward Thundercracker, "is he like this all the time?"

"Mostly," the blue Seeker couldn't help himself, and endured a withering stare from his wing mate.

"You will pay for this," Starscream spat, glaring through the bars again at the retreating backs of the Autobots. "You will pay, each and every one of you. No one treats me like this! _No one_!"

He went on like that for some time, mostly because Ironhide had stayed behind to pull duty, and was well within audio range of Starscream's screeching tirade, and Thundercracker was just glad he wasn't the one who had to listen to it. Oh, he had to listen, but with Starscream's attention focused on the chunky, red Autobot outside, Thundercracker at least didn't have to pretend like he was paying attention. Nodding and interjecting monosyllabic mumbles of encouragement got tiring after a while.

Left blessedly alone, at least for now, he sat down on the hard bench and stared at the floor. What had they been thinking, running north? If only they'd stayed with the rest of the wing, but Starscream had gotten impatient and cocky and tried bulleting for home, and now they were paying for it. Correction: Starscream had made a huge, slagging mistake, dragging Thundercracker with him because Thundercracker was too much of a softy to let his wingman blunder away on his own, and now _Thundercracker_ was paying for it. He was pretty sure Starscream was blathering his way into getting knocked out cold, which would leave Thundercracker alone to endure the inevitable parade of Autobot rodentia. Why couldn't he have been captured with Skywarp? 'Warp was an abhorrent little backstabber, yeah, but at least he wasn't…well, he wasn't Starscream.

Elbow propped on his knee, head cradled miserably in one hand, Thundercracker slowly and dispiritedly began dislodging bits of tree from his intakes. He wondered what the Autobots would do with them. It'd been so long since he'd been captured, he had no idea what Autobots were really like anymore. Mostly, he thought of them as little targets that crawled over the ground in painfully slow convoys, all but begging to be shot at. It boggled the mind, the very idea of existing in a body without wings, and he could only figure that they were pretty bitter little bastards by now. Eons of being a land-crawler would do that, not to mention eons more of bad breeding that culminated in the runty, dusty little race that was the Autobots. He had to admit that Starscream had a point about the minibots; they were the ultimate example of design gone wrong. Like the Cybertronian version of trailer trash, to coin one of Swindle's more recent phrases. Thundercracker smiled to himself at that.

"Well, give me somebody," he overheard Ironhide saying, now that Starscream had finally ceased yelling, and had resigned himself to pacing and muttering darkly.

"There isn't anybody," a crisp voice replied over the comm-link. "Everyone who isn't on duty already is either in medical, or on mandatory R&R."

"R&R?" Ironhide snorted. "Those little punks don't nee—"

"Are you willing to argue with Ratchet on that point?" the voice interjected smoothly, and Ironhide gave just enough pause that Thundercracker had the clear idea that he didn't much want to argue with Ratchet about anything. Half-interested, he wondered what the big deal was about some little medic.

But Ironhide was speaking again, this time a little shrewdly, though Thundercracker would have to emphasize the 'little' part. "Well," the old Autobot drawled, "who exactly is on R&R?"

The voice sighed. "The usual roster. Listen, Ironhide, you'll just have to make do with the personnel you have now. I'm very busy; I'll receive your report in the morning. Prowl out."

The comm-link went dead before Ironhide could respond, and Thundercracker heard him grumbling something about where Prowl could shove his personnel, and how. But just as quickly, the Autobot was on the link again, this time with someone who made Prowl sound positively cheerful. "Make it quick," the new voice snapped.

"Listen, Ratchet," Ironhide sounded like he was smiling, "I got a little favor to ask you."

"No."

"But Ratchet, buddy," Ironhide pressed, and Thundercracker was sure he was grinning now, "you ain't even heard me out."

"No personnel are excused from R&R. Press the issue, and I will come up there, Ironhide.

"Aw, to visit me?" the red Autobot twanged.

"No," Ratchet corrected him, "to beat you severely about the head and shoulders with Cliffjumper's left arm. I have it in hand right now."

"Listen, Ratchet," Ironhide sounded like he was getting down to business now, "about that python in yer caboose last week…"

The comm-link went dead for a moment, then crackled alive again, though this time with what sounded like Ratchet's full and displeased attention. "What about it?"

"Well, I mean, I know how you have that thing about snakes and all…"

"I _hate_ them," Ratchet seethed, obviously angry – well, angr_ier_ – about whatever Ironhide was talking about, and in the background, Thundercracker heard a sharp 'ow!', as though the good doc had taken out his frustrations on Cliffjumper.

"Well," Ironhide continued, "I don't s'pose that if I were to show you receipts provin' our favorite lil' scum-balls had purchased one ball python at a Portland pet store…"

"Sons of goats!" the medic roared into the comm, paused, and then barked, "They're all yours! Ratchet out!"

A short bit of silence followed the exchange, and then Ironhide let out such a diabolical little huff of mirth that both Seekers exchanged worried glances. Thundercracker shrugged, Starscream resumed his stalking, and Ironhide clicked open the comm-link again.

"Oh, boys," he sang sweetly, and Thundercracker craned his neck around, but he couldn't quite see the grin that went with the sound of glee. "Report to the brig for guard detail."

"We're on R&R," a truly unpleasant voice snapped back. "Ratchet's orders."

"Well," Ironhide was sounding about pleased enough to burst, "Ratchet gave you both to me."

"Bullslag," came another voice, not quite so harsh as the first, but with a bit of a shadowy hint to it.

"Oh, it's true," Ironhide replied nicely. "Two words: py thon."

A dead silence filled the link, giving Thundercracker a slightly comical sense of déjà vu, before a snarl exploded through the static. "You rat-slagging bastard – scragging snitch!"

"Uh, 'python' is one word, actually," the second voice put in, but was overridden by the first voice, which sputtered and frothed in a very good imitation of Starscream. Thundercracker smirked.

"I don't give a daggone what you got to say about it," Ironhide drawled blandly over the diatribe. "Jus' get yer collective spoilers up here, and don't drag aft about it."

Some very impressive swearing was cut off, mid-string, and the springs on the Autobot's chair creaked slightly as he leaned back and indulged in a long chuckle. "Spend my whole night in here – tuh. Gettin' too old…"

Again, Thundercracker shared glances with Starscream, and it was clear by the Air Commander's face that he thought himself far above such petty, useless bickering. "You see, Thundercracker," Starscream pointed out in a low voice, as though nothing were more obvious in the world than the inferiority of the Autobot race. "You do see…" He rolled his optics and sighed in a dramatic, longsuffering gesture that indicated his doubt that he'd be able to suffer through much more.

Something about pots and black kettles wafted through Thundercracker's mind.

Several minutes passed, during which time Ironhide's fingertips drummed louder and more fiercely against the console, until Thundercracker thought he might drum a hole through the thing. Starscream paced and muttered and shot meaningful looks, and Thundercracker buried his head in one hand again, and continued to pick twigs with the other, while wondering just how bad his headache was going to become. He could feel it there, niggling at the base of his cranial unit, and threatening to bloom into something that looked in his mind's optic like a physical interpretation of the sound of Starscream's voice.

At last, the brig door hissed open, and Ironhide's hand came down with a slap. "'Bout slaggin' time! What'd you do, roll through the wash-rack first?"

"Slag off," was the prickly reply, and the door closed with a soft whoosh.

"Who'd we pick up, anyway?" the second voice sounded curiously from the threshold.

"Heh," Ironhide grunted, "you ain't heard? Well, lucky you."

Thundercracker heard him get up from his chair. "You have all night to get cozy with 'em. Now I'm off for some R&R."

"Don't fall and break your face or anything," came the sullen retort.

But Ironhide wasn't hearing it. "Check on y'all in the morning. Enjoy." And the door swallowed him out into the hall.

Silence fell, as Thundercracker looked up at Starscream again, and wondered what they were about to be subjected to now. Bad enough that they'd been captured, worse that they'd been transported to the brig by a herd of scuzzy little mini-bots, only to sit through a bunch of Autobot whining…now what?

And magically, tragically, he got his answer. Slouching like the sullen poster-children for disaffected youth, and slinking like a matched pair of primary-colored sharks, the irascible Autobot twins sauntered into view. Starscream let out an audible groan; Sunstreaker's lip lifted into a sneer. Thundercracker, head immediately beginning to pound anew, dropped his face into his hands, but not before he saw a delighted grin bloom across the breadth of Sideswipe's face.

"Well, kiss my grits, if it isn't our favorite jets." Sideswipe drew closer, leaning in for a better look, and Thundercracker watched him from between his fingers. "What ever did you nice little birdies do to land yourselves in here?"

The gloating was too much for Starscream. "Not – you. I refuse – I –" he stood, back straight, fists at his side, staring down at the pair, who really weren't that much shorter than he. Thundercracker was used to most Autobots being downright miniscule, and the very fact that these loathsome two didn't have the propriety to be just a little lower to the ground was something that Starscream didn't seem to be taking very well. "Get _OUT_."

"Woah, ho, no can do," Sideswipe spread his hands, still grinning broadly. "Seems we're stuck here, all night, I think…" He turned an inquisitive glance toward Sunstreaker.

"Yup," the yellow one affirmed, without taking his optics off the captive Seekers, or wiping the ugly smirk off his faceplate. "All night."

"This," Starscream snapped, "is an outrage. I _demand_ to see Optimus Prime. I will not be gawked at by you scruffy little cockroaches—"

"Scruffy?" Sunstreaker rolled the word around in his mouth with what seemed to be a new level of ire.

"I am the Air Commander, Megatron's very right arm—"

"You have twigs hanging out your aft, and you're calling me scruffy?" Sunstreaker's scowl was deepening.

"—which entails me," Starscream's voice rose over the yellow Autobot's, "to some decent amount of respect, I would think!"

Sideswipe leaned back against the opposite wall and crossed his arms with an indolent smile. "Prime's busy."

"Scruffy?" Sunstreaker didn't seem able to quite get past that point, and screwed his face up into fearful contortions.

"I demand to see him at once," Starscream bristled at the front of the cell.

"Well," Sideswipe replied, as he lazily crossed one ankle over the other, "so sad."

A moment of huffy posturing from Starscream gave a good effort at intimidation, but absolutely nothing about Sideswipe's stance made him seem the least bit impressed. In fact, the Autobot seemed content to simply slouch against the wall and watch the display – something Thundercracker was pretty sure Starscream wasn't used to, since he was able to inspire at least a little bit of fear around Decepticon HQ – and at length, the Air Commander seemed to get it through his processor that he wasn't going to get his way. "Fine," the silver Seeker finally spat, and Thundercracker almost thought he might stamp his foot, "waste your resources. It's why your race is nearly extinct anyway."

"Scruffy. Me." Sunstreaker gestured at himself, and turned his brother an incredulous look.

"Our resources?" Sideswipe snorted, gave Sunstreaker an absent-minded pat, and said as if it were an afterthought, "Bro, just because you're dog-piss yellow doesn't mean you're scruffy."

Thundercracker bit back a smile, but if either he or Sunstreaker had a comment to make, Starscream was steamrolling over everyone as usual. "Yes, your resources," he spoke down his nose, or at least tried to. "If you were captives of the Decepticons, you would have been properly tortured by now, all your useful information extracted, and we would already be in the throes of tactical discussion, exploiting our advantage before the enemy realized we even had you."

Sunstreaker suddenly looked alarmingly cheerful. "You want to be tortured?"

"No, we don't," Thundercracker supplied quickly, knowing pretty well what these particular Autobots were like, and not knowing whether they would hold to their Autobot ideals. "Shut up, Starscream."

But Sideswipe was already looking thoughtful. "You know," he said, "if it makes you feel any better, we could plug your optic cables into an electrical socket. I'm pretty sure that would suck."

Sunstreaker nodded, and looked as though he were actually running it through his mind. "Yep, that would suck."

Sideswipe flashed the Seekers a nice grin.

Which of course was not at all what Starscream had been expecting. "Uh, heh, gentlemen," he took a half-step back, "you're Autobots you know, peace loving…"

Sunstreaker's face slid into a slow smile, which was not nearly as deceptively nice as Sideswipe's. Actually, it was pretty blatantly wolfish, and Thundercracker found himself on his feet and backing against the wall of his of the cell, because for that one small moment, staring into the frosty well of that Autobot's optics, he absolutely believed that the yellow mech was neither peaceful nor loving.

For a thick, tense moment, Autobot stared at Decepticon, each mech completely still, but at length the anxiety seemed too much for Starscream, and the Seeker started babbling all over the place. "Of course we didn't mean – just a joke, naturally – you can't possibly - I mean –"

"Oh, shut up," Sunstreaker rolled his optics, and turned on his heel to go back to the watch station.

Sideswipe stayed behind for a moment to smirk insufferably, before sauntering off to join his brother. Thundercracker rounded on Starscream.

"Nice job, you twit." He balled his fists, and seriously considered using them. "Why'd you have to go and say 'we' anyway?"

But of course Starscream was back to his intolerable self, and rolled his optics toward the ceiling in a grand showing of nonchalance . "Oh, calm down, Thundercracker. It's obvious they weren't serious."

"No?" Thundercracker raised his brows. "Have you taken a good look at those two clowns?" He lowered his voice. "They're nut-jobs, in case you haven't noticed—"

"Well, of course they're nut-jobs," Starscream sighed expansively, and began delicately and fussily picking the tree bits out of his framework. "But they're clearly cowards, and of course they were only bluffing."

"You didn't seem to think so a minute ago," Thundercracker fumed, but he knew there was no reasoning with Starscream, and he resigned himself to picking at twigs again. Demoralized and irritated, he sat morosely down once more on the hard bench.

Starscream huffed and did the same, though he kept standing, most likely to keep himself from fidgeting. Thundercracker understood how he felt. Leaning over to clear his heel-thrusters, he stared at the floor and tried not to think about the thick ceiling overhead, or the tons and tons of rock above that. Concentrating hard, he leaned as far over as he could so all he could see was the floor, and so he wouldn't have to think about the sort of itch that was growing at his wingbase, or the fact that he was being contained. Fliers couldn't take containment; it made them a little panicky and a little desperate, and he knew that most of Starscream's ranting so far had been to distract himself from that very thought, a reason for which Thundercracker couldn't blame him.

Of course, there was that operative word, 'most'.

"Well, now I'm bored," the silver Seeker blurted, shattering the quiet, and Thundercracker closed his optics in momentary homage to his wing mate's very special brand of stupidity.

A creak sounded from the watch station, indicating that one of the Autobots had tilted his chair back. "You're bored?" Sideswipe called back with mock concern. "Heavens no. Shall I call for room service?"

Starscream sulked. "This is intolerable," he whined. "You can't possibly expect someone with so great a mind as mine to just while away the hours in this awful cell."

A brief moment of silence hung in the air, after which Sideswipe's incredulous face appeared on the other side of the bars. "I'm sorry," he deadpanned. "Do you require a bedtime story?"

Thundercracker rolled his optics and continued cleaning. But Starscream wasn't done. "I require," he peeved, "accommodations befitting my stature."

"Put him in the Hole," came the uniquely sullen sound of Sunstreaker's voice.

"The-the hole?" Starscream faltered, again suddenly and predictably unsure of himself.

Sideswipe chuckled and looked as though he were actually considering the idea. "You know, that's a thought…"

At that, Sunstreaker appeared, and looked the Seekers up and down as though he smelled something really foul. "Least these two deserve anyway."

Both Autobots simultaneously shifted their gazes down the corridor and to the trap door, then back up to Starscream, who immediately understood.

"In there?" Starscream's optics widened a little as he suppressed a shudder, not that Thundercracker really blamed him on that count.

"Yes, in there," Sideswipe affirmed with raised brows. "Would that be more to your liking, monsieur?"

"What's in there?" Starscream didn't seem to be able to help himself from asking.

"Nothing," Sunstreaker answered with a stark stare; Thundercracker shuddered, and for the second time felt an awful kind of alarm rise up inside at the sight of the Autobot's face. There was nothing flippant about him, and whatever his brother found so humorous about the situation, it was clear that Sunstreaker was very deadly serious. It was clear, Thundercracker thought suddenly, that Sunstreaker knew exactly what was inside that trap door.

"Well," Starscream was backpedaling already, much to Thundercracker's relief, "it's not like this is so bad. I mean, I can only assume that we're Prime's top priority, and he'll want to find us exactly where he lef—"

Again the Autobots rolled their optics and began to drift boredly back to the watch station, but much to Thundercracker's chagrin, being so quickly ignored was apparently too much for Starscream's sense of self-importance. "Where are you going?" he demanded, all trace of wheedling gone from his voice and replaced with his more familiar, impetuous tone.

"Away," Sunstreaker answered, and did not return.

A moment of quiet passed, in which Thundercracker could hear the Autobots playing some kind of game, punctuated by the occasional, mild cussword, as well as a bit of obligatory arguing. Of course, far be it from Starscream to understand why anyone wouldn't find him endlessly fascinating, and Thundercracker could tell that it drove his wing mate a little mad that these Autobots had actually grown bored with him – and within a matter of minutes, to boot.

This did not set well, and Thundercracker could all but see the other Seeker simmering. Admittedly, it probably wouldn't have been so bad if they'd been guarded by almost anyone else, but this was the pair of Autobots who had inflicted particular insult on the Decepticon jets for ages, and it was just too much for Starscream to tolerate that they couldn't be bothered with him now.

"Give it up, Starscream," Thundercracker rumbled quietly, for all the good it did.

"I will not," Starscream groused irritably, his voice rising from word one. "I am bored, and have been mistreated. I have painful injuries that these _noble_ Autobots have refused to repair, simply to leave me in agony for their own amusement, and I—"

"Primus!" Sideswipe barked from around the corner. "This is a brig, not a daycare!"

"Well, I can't help it," Starscream complained loudly. "I'm in pain."

"Good!" Sunstreaker snapped.

"And I refuse to suffer in silence!" the Seeker shouted, banged his fist against the bars, and withdrew it with a quick 'ow!' as he remembered too late that it hurt when one punched energy bars.

That seemed to do the trick. There was some shuffling, and the sounds of something being gathered up, and then the sight of two slightly annoyed Autobots appearing on the other side of the bars. "Well," Sideswipe growled, "you don't want to be tortured, and you don't want to go in the Hole. What do you want?"

The indignant posture of Starscream's stance simply shouted that he wanted attention, but he wasn't going to admit that. Well, at least not outright anyway. He sniffed, "I want the treatment due to a personage of my magnitude."

"The only thing with magnitude is your head," Sunstreaker shot back, and Thundercracker couldn't quite stifle a snicker.

Starscream crossed his arms and puffed himself up, and if he could look any less injured, Thundercracker didn't see how. "Surely I command some respect."

"Respect?" Sunstreaker snorted. "You? The only thing you command is the hot air comin' out of your mouth, Starsqueak."

Sideswipe laughed at that, but Starscream managed a look of disdain. "Well, that wasn't how you seemed to feel the last time I knocked you losers out of the sky."

"Oh?" Sideswipe's optics were still bright with mirth. "Well I seem to remember dumping you in New York harbor not to long ago. How'd that work out, anyway?"

But Starscream chose not to respond to that, and instead leaned forward with an ugly look on his face. "Well, I seem to remember not too long ago," he purred,

"Thundercracker, Skywarp and I tore the plating right off of Sunstreaker while he squealed for mercy."

At that, the Autobots' faces fell, and what humor had been there was now replaced with something very cold. Sunstreaker, face closed, simply stared stonily, but Sideswipe had become suddenly, distinctly predatory. Thundercracker remembered that day. Swindle had approached the three Seekers with a deal: teach a certain Autobot Sunstreaker a lesson, and they would earn a few extra credits. Of course neither he, Starscream, nor Skywarp needed incentive to do that, but what Thundercracker hadn't counted on was how sick it would make him later. He remembered the faces of the Autobots who had come to watch and cheer, their optics gleaming with vengeful glee, and he remembered the desperate fury with which Sideswipe had entered the fray, swinging his piledrivers not in anger but in a kind of frantic and awful horror.

It had bothered Thundercracker for reasons he did not understand. The red Autobot had driven the three Seekers into retreat, mostly because he'd caught them by surprise, but partly because there was something in the force of his assault that none of the three Decepticons could contend with, something that he still couldn't quite place.

"Oh, yes," Starscream smiled in quiet triumph, too full of his own pomp to be the slightest bit ashamed, "no snappy comeback for that, hmm?"

"Well," Sideswipe stared back, voice quietly edged, "I beat you one-on-one, but you brag about what three of you did to Sunstreaker. You know it's funny," he added, "how we keep coming back to the subject of torture."

"Oh, please," Starscream scoffed. "That's being a little dramatic."

But Sideswipe's stare didn't flicker. "Mauling someone for fun doesn't really qualify for anything else."

"Well, what do you call the Autobots who paid us to do it?" Thundercracker piped up, without any idea why.

"Sorry," Sideswipe stated flatly, and from the look in his optics, Thundercracker had no doubt that they were. Suddenly very bothered, the blue Seeker looked away.

"Well, that only goes to show," Starscream rolled right over the odd tension in the air, though Thundercracker wished he wouldn't, "that you Autobots are not quite as noble and righteous as you want everyone to believe, are you? I mean, honestly, that lot positively cheered themselves hoarse—"

"I know," Sunstreaker interjected. "I remember."

Starscream smiled nastily. "Not very popular, are you?"

To which Sunstreaker replied with a level stare, "Likewise."

That brought Starscream up short, and Sideswipe's face suddenly split into a wicked grin as he clapped Sunstreaker on the shoulder. "Good one, bro."

Starscream had nothing to say to that, and in fact seemed a little taken aback that the Autobot would peg him so well. Optics narrow, the silver Seeker tipped his head a little, processor churning, but it was Thundercracker who surprised himself by speaking up. "What'd you do to them?"

It was almost as though his mouth were moving of its own accord, and the blue Seeker cursed himself as the Autobots' stares slid his way. "What'd we do to who?" Sideswipe snapped, his grin gone as quickly as it had appeared.

Flinching a little, Thundercracker made himself meet the Autobot's gaze. "To the other Autobots. What'd you do?"

Now it was Sideswipe's turn to narrow his optics, and Thundercracker could tell he'd hit on a touchy subject. "That," Sideswipe informed him, "would be our business, not yours."

There was a slight, rolling emphasis of the word 'yours', one that told Thundercracker in no uncertain terms what Sideswipe thought of him. But he couldn't help himself. "I want to know," he pressed, without the slightest clue why. "Please."

That last bit had been added as an impromptu measure of self-preservation, not that it seemed to do him a whole lot of good. "Please," Sideswipe repeated, voice flat. He turned to his brother. "He said please."

"I heard him say please," Sunstreaker raised a brow.

"And you know what 'please' means," Sideswipe raised his brows to match.

"Oh, it's the magic word," Sunstreaker affirmed.

"And the magic word gets you whatever you want," Sideswipe turned back to Thundercracker, "because we're nice Autobots…"

"…good Autobots…"

"…and we always do the polite and friendly thing."

"Especially when they say 'please'," Sunstreaker snorted, and Sideswipe gave Thundercracker such a look of disgust that the blue Seeker actually felt a little awkward pang.

Which surprised him, of course. He was used to being treated with scorn, even used to getting into scraps once in a while, just because Rampage didn't like the color of his paint, or because he'd accidentally stepped too near Brawl, so a little bit of disgust from an Autobot shouldn't have made him so much as bat an optic.

But before his mind could work over the problem, Starscream had recovered, and was blustering all over the place again. "Oh, puh-lease," he moaned, with a truly theatrical roll of his optics. "Is it really all that dramatic? We scrap him, you scrap the people who paid us to do it, we're all even, right? I mean, really," he huffed, "he must have done something to deserve all that. It was Mirage who paid Swindle, wasn't it?" He grinned unpleasantly. "What'd you do to the little spy, anyway?"

But Sideswipe's disgust had only deepened, and whatever chance Thundercracker might have had of having an honest discussion was gone now. Looking the silver Seeker up and down, Sideswipe blinked slowly, as if drawing on all the patience he had in the world, and asked, "If we go away, will you shut up?"

Starscream smiled. "No."

"Fine," Sideswipe gave up, then turned to his brother and said something in a language Thundercracker had never heard before.

Sunstreaker answered, jerked his chin in Thundercracker's direction, and said something that Sideswipe didn't seem to like at all.

The red Autobot frowned, mulling, then muttered a reply that didn't sound the least bit pleasant, and included the word 'Ironhide'.

"What – what was that?" Starscream asked, sounding as curious as Thundercracker felt. He'd skimmed through his entire language database, and had found nothing to match what the Autobots had just spoken.

But they didn't seem inclined to offer a reply, and instead knelt down on the floor, where Sunstreaker dropped a handful of what looked like stones. A deep, metallic slate-blue, and fairly heavy by the sound of them, the stones skittered across the floor with a sound like drumming rain, before they came to rest across a small area. Frowning, both Autobots studied the arrangement before Sideswipe narrowed his optics.

"Your turn?"

"Nng," Sunstreaker shook his head, seemingly in hard concentration. "Do-over."

Sideswipe swore. "Fine. Stupid Ironhide." He paused a moment, musing, then reached out to pick up a random stone, which he then set down near the perimeter of the mess.

Sunstreaker furrowed his brow, then countered with another seemingly haphazard move, and gestured for Sideswipe to take his turn.

Biting the tip of his thumb, Sideswipe stared hard at the stones for a very long time. He even got off his knees to sit on his heels, still chewing, as though the new vantage point might give him a more useful perspective, and in fact, it did. After several moments of agonizing over what seemed to Thundercracker like a scattered jumble of nonsense, Sideswipe's optics abruptly lit up, and he jumped two stones with a third, then pocketed all three.

"Ha!" he stabbed a finger at his brother, and sat smugly back on his heels to watch.

Sunstreaker wasn't impressed, and Starscream even less so. "You're a couple of loonies," he lifted his lip, perplexed, optics fastened onto the game. "What in Primus' name are you doing?"

"Shut up, Starscream," Thundercracker grumbled, tired of his wing mate's voice, and tired of him pissing off two mechs who, for some reason he didn't really understand, Thundercracker wanted to talk to.

Not that it mattered, as the Autobots seemed to have no intention of answering either of them. Sunstreaker hovered his hand over one piece, thought better of it, then tossed a different piece through the maze, knocking a third stone two feet to the side. Smiling, he picked one from the center, and pocketed it.

Sideswipe grumbled and hunkered lower to glare at the game, while Starscream shot wide-opticked looks in Thundercracker's direction, complete with forefinger twirling around his temple in the universal crazy symbol. Sideswipe, however, seemed oblivious, and switched two stones around before pocketing a third at random.

"Cheater!" Sunstreaker threw a forefinger in Sideswipe's direction.

Sideswipe tossed up his hands. "What?"

"You know what, you slag-sucker! Put it back!"

"Prove it," Sideswipe smirked, smug, while Sunstreaker fumed.

"Fine," Sunstreaker humphed, "have it your way." After which he made some similarly dubious move, which Sideswipe didn't seem to like one bit, and said so with a varied use of colorful metaphors. But cheaters couldn't be choosers, obviously, and his temper faded back into thoughtfulness almost as quickly as it had flared.

The good part was that the whole thing seemed to be having a very bad effect on Starscream's mood. "How can it be cheating when it's complete gibberish?" he complained loudly, but when no one seemed to want to answer him, he sank down on his own heels to watch in relative silence.

Whether or not the Autobots had foreseen this, Thundercracker didn't know, but their little game of stones seemed to have the blessed effect they'd all been looking for ever since Starscream had set foot into the brig. Muttering to himself, the silver Seeker stared at the seemingly ridiculous game and, outside of a few half-formed grumbles of protest regarding this move or that, Starscream didn't say a word for at least an hour.

As for Thundercracker, he became slowly mesmerized. Even after half an hour, he still had no idea what he was looking at, and a part of him insisted they were largely making the whole thing up, but there was a kind of questionable logic to the game, a kind of…sense…that made Thundercracker unable to look away. It was like a diagram of something he couldn't quite place, like some kind of shifting picture, or like one of those 3-D paintings that suddenly popped out into something that made sense if one stared at them long enough.

What was more, there was something soothing about the whole thing. He didn't know why, or how exactly to explain why it lulled him, but it did. At length, he found himself squatting down over his own heels to watch, his cell forgotten along with his agitation at being detained. The stones formed into an octagon, then a rough star pattern, then into something else that Thundercracker couldn't name, but held a pattern of symmetry all the same, and he realized at once that it had been a long, long time since he'd seen the Autobots this way. There had always been swaggering involved, not to mention the trading of insults and energy bolts, and the ever-unforgettable pile of casualties that seemed not only endless, but also always filled with just one more life to be avenged. It was cyclic, the whole thing, with one side wronging the other into retaliation, until it was hard to remember which side had wronged whom first, or why. Thundercracker was sure it had been the Autobots, resolute that it was they who had first tried to assert their undeserved dominance, sullying the bloodlines of the Cybertronian race with their ignoble sparks. The Autobots weakened the Cybertronian race, and the Autobots held the Cybertronian back from all that he could become; of this, Thundercracker was sure.

Wasn't he? Watching the pair of Autobots before him, he wondered.

"You and your doubts," Starscream groused just the yesterday as they knifed through the clouds, the wind whistling against their sides as they bore down on the hospital. "Stop doubting and just shoot."

"But it's...you know, kids," Thundercracker pointed out halfheartedly as he stared through the sights of his targeting system at the west wall of the children's cancer ward.

"Kids, puppies, whatever, who cares?" Starscream sniped. "Just shoot already."

"But..." Thundercracker started, and hated the sound of his own vocalizer as it trailed off into uselessness. He wouldn't say what he was really thinking; no Decepticon was that dumb. But there was something hateful about the sound of his own missile lock, whining at him like a ceaseless gnat while the cherry-red brick of the children's hospital loomed closer in the late afternoon sun. He could see the windows glinting at him, almost merry in the golden light, while his shadow flicked below him over the building tops, painting his inky shape wherever it touched.

"Thundercracker..." Starscream's voice had lost its irritated tinge now, and had dropped into something more ominous. It was the tone he always used when he knew Thundercracker was wavering. "Fire your missiles," he said, voice deadly quiet over the comm link. "Now."

For a long, silent moment, the two jets regarded each other mutely, as side by side they closed in on their target. Around him, the wisps of cloud touched like fingers of ice against Thundercracker's fuselage, chilling him uncannily. He shouldn't have hesitated, shouldn't have thought. He shouldn't have overheard that the intended target was the children's wing; he should have kept a carefully deaf audio and done as he was told, no more, no less, like the loyal Decepticon he was.

But he did overhear, and he had had time to think about it. And now with the target so close at hand, it had ceased to be a nameless target, and had become a building red as the sickening light pulsating in tune with the tone of his target sensors: fire, fire, fire. It made no sense, why he should. It made no sense to pull the trigger. He couldn't fire, and yet --

"Thundercracker..." Starscream warned.

"I..." Thundercracker tried to say, faltering, five hundred sick children in the grip of his targeting system. "I -- I just..."

But at once, there came a brilliant flash, and he had to wrench himself aside as Skywarp teleported in and cut him off. "Aw, you guys are takin' too long." And with that, he let loose a volley of missiles, and Thundercracker pulled out of his barrel roll in time to see the west wall of the hospital heave itself upward in a burst of flame.

"Bwuaha!" he heard Skywarp's voice distantly over the comm link. "That's the way," he was singing, "I like it, uh huh, uh huh! Come on, Cracker, ya crack-baby, let's go!"

Slower, much slower than the other two, Thundercracker banked and turned for home. But not before the sight of those flames had added themselves to his memory banks, and to the long list of questions to which he had no answers.

"Oh, quit your moping," Starscream snapped at him that evening, as they made their way toward the nuclear reactor. "You're such drama queen."

Thundercracker said nothing as the pair of them landed and began setting up the siphons for the energon draw. With the Autobots distracted at the hospital, they'd have enough time now for a decent harvest. Children for fuel, Thunderacker supposed this was. Set fire to a few hundred kids, and Thundercracker could enjoy stealing his next ration in peace. He supposed some of this might even be made into high-grade. It always was. So it was children for booze then, too. The next time he got falling down drunk, he'd try not to imagine the mother who had to bury her nine-year-old kid just so Thundercracker could forget the war for an evening.

"Fine," Starscream huffed when he failed to answer, "you want to sulk? Sulk. But at least get a move on. We don't have all day."

It was always like this with Starscream. He was insufferable, to say the least. But though he knew of Thundercracker's occasional doubts, the Air Commander didn't turn his wing mate in to Megatron, either. Instead, he'd keep an especially close watch on the blue Seeker, chivvying and prodding him out of his funk, reminding him of his place among the Decepticons, effectively protecting him until Thundercracker could function normally again. It was a weakness in Thundercracker, or so Starscream saw it; he'd told Thundercracker so. It was just a weakness, to doubt. So when he did, Starscream merely propped his underling up until he could forget his doubts again, and go back to shooting innocents without a qualm.

Strange, that Starscream of all people should actually turn out to be a good leader and a solid friend. Stranger still that his friendship should keep Thundercracker so safely and securely penned on the wrong side of everything.

On the other side of the bars, the heavy stones clinked, and Thundercracker was shaken from his reverie to see Sunstreaker reach out and make a somewhat complicated move. He and his brother were concentrating hard now, their heads bent together in unmistakably fond camaraderie. They shared a soft word between them, too low for Thundercracker to hear, and at once Thundercracker wondered if they had ever fired missiles at sick children, and if they'd flinched when they pulled the trigger. Come to think of it, he had never seen these Autobots flinch, not once in thousands of years, while Thundercracker would admit at least to himself that there were many times that he'd played the coward. Thundercracker flinched; it was something he did often. And yet, it was he who fired on innocents, while these Autobots -- who seemingly had neither fear nor qualm in doing whatever they pleased to do -- would not. Was it only cowards then who did such things?

But that couldn't be. The Decepticons, noblest of the Cybertronian race, cowards? It was blasphemy even to think such things -- heretical, and dangerous. And yet, was it not the Autobots' own resident noble who had hired Swindle in the first place? Frowning, Thundercracker stared at the pair before him, and at once he was thrown back to that day in Seeker Bay.

"Gentlemen," Swindle announced himself as he swaggered into their hangar, his hands held together in their usual unctuous gesture. Optics glittering, and wasting no time in getting straight down to business, he said, "Boy, do I have a proposition for you."

"Oh?" Starscream crossed his arms, while Thundercracker and Skywarp closed in on either side of him. They were wary of the oily little salesman, but far too dependent on his black market offerings to send him scurrying just yet. Dealing with Swindle could be worth a knife in the back, but it could pay out in credits, too.

"Yeah," the Combaticon sidled up, fingers steepled as he all but radiated suppressed mirth. "I need three volunteers for a little sideline I got going. Pay's good, and the work...well, shall we say, it won't hurt your feelings." This last bit he punctuated with a greasy smile.

Starscream narrowed his optics, regarding Swindle beadily. "We're listening."

His smarmy smile broadening into a grin, Swindle emitted a bit of a conspiratorial chuckle, and sidled even closer, as though to share some fabulous joke. "Weeeeell," he began, fingertips drumming lightly against each other, "it seems that I have been contracted to hand out a little bit of payback, and I think you gents are just the mechs for the job."

"Woah, woah, woah," Starscream held up a hand, "if this is about Octane and that little petrol fiasco with the Stunticons --"

"Nooo," Swindle forestalled Starscream's protest with an airy wave. "Nothing doing, and besides the Stuntis took care of Octane last week. You're so very yesterday, my friend. This," his grin widened until Thundercracker was sure his face was going to split at the seams, "is about...an Autobot."

"An - an Autobot?" Starscream blinked, apparently caught off guard with that bit of news.

"Whaddya mean, an Autobot?" Skywarp brightened, sounding suddenly eager. "Who?"

"And what exactly do you mean by payback?" Starscream demanded, suddenly shrewd. "No one took a hit out on Optimus Prime or anything?" The Air Commander's voice took on a bit of a quaver over that last point, but before Skywarp could snipe at him for it, Swindle smoothed it all over with a wave.

"Nothing of the sort," he assured them with a rather sickening smile. "Besides, would I endanger my own suppliers?"

"Yes," the three Seekers answered in unison, but if this ruffled Swindle any, he didn't show it.

"Come on," he spread his hands, "it'll be three against one, nothing you boys can't handle, I promise."

"And exactly who," Starscream tipped his head, arms still crossed, "is Mr. Nothing-We-Can't-Handle?"

"You ready for this?" Swindle paused to flash his grin at each of them. Then with a flourish, like some sort of gaudy magician revealing his coup-de-gras, he said, "Sunstreaker."

Immediately the mood snapped from mistrust to something far more gleefully malicious. "Sunstreaker?" Starscream repeated, his face slowly blooming into something of a rather nasty smile. "You want us to take out Sunstreaker?"

"No, you can't take him out," Swindle held up a hand, only to earn a rumble of dissent from the trio of Seekers. To say that Sunstreaker was generally despised among the Decepticons was an understatement in the extreme. "But don't worry," Swindle hurried to say, "you get to beat him _almost_ to death, and better yet," he leaned forward, all but wringing his hands with glee now, "you get to _humiliate_ him."

"Humiliatin' him's good," Skywarp said with relish, his optics glittering as he rubbed his hands together. Any chance to humiliate Sunstreaker was like the Decepticon version of a birthday come early. "I mean," he added, "if you're sure we can't kill him...?"

"No, you can't." Swindle crossed his arms. "Kill him and you don't get paid. Worse," he scowled deeply, "I don't get paid. That's the deal."

"So let me get this straight," Thundercracker put in, just as interested in this deal as his two wing mates, "you're actually gonna pay us to beat the slag outta that piss-eating Sunstreaker and somehow humiliate him to boot?"

"That would be correct." Swindle offered him a nice smile, rubbing his hands together. "It's all been worked out. You get five minutes during a battle, when dear old Sunstreaker will be led to a pre-arranged location. Once there, you may do your worst -- without killing him, of course -- all to the rousing cheers of the Autobot spectators."

"Autobots?" Starscream blurted, optics flown wide. "Wait -- _Autobots_ took out this contract?" He barked out a laugh, incredulous.

"Man, this guy is popular," Thundercracker chortled. "Who's payin' you? Sideswipe?"

That earned a round of jeers, not to mention a few derogatory comments about Sideswipe, followed by questions on whether they could beat the slag out of him, too. It was a toss-up, really, between who they hated more, what with the loathsome invention of "Jet Judo". There was something a little creepy about Sunstreaker (something decidedly un-Autobot, which should have endeared him to Thundercracker, instead of the other way around), not to mention something admittedly scary about how effective he was at mauling people. But Sideswipe...there was just something insufferably joyful about Sideswipe's approach to battle. Sunstreaker was scary, but Sideswipe took such delight in whatever he was dishing out, such sheer _joie de vivre_ in every assault, every launched rocket, every swing of his piledrivers, that Thundercracker and every other Decepticon despised him utterly.

To put it plainly, there was something particularly reviled about the Autobot twins. Thundercracker wasn't even sure he could put his finger on what it was; he simply knew that where he felt disdain for most Autobots, he felt that extra measure of malice toward the Autobot brothers. Killing someone like Bumblebee would be great, sure, but when one day they took out the twins, Thundercracker knew there'd be more than one round of high-grade passed around in celebration.

"So come on, who paid you?" Skywarp demanded, once the chatter died down. "Prime finally tryin' to get rid of that son of a glitch? Or maybe that white fairy of a tactician --"

"Yeah, that guy always looks pretty peeved," Thundercracker grinned. "I could see him offin' Sunstreaker, easy."

"Oh, puh-lease," Starscream offered an elaborate optic-roll, "who _wouldn't_ off that yellow pipe-sucker?"

"In fact," Swindle put in, fingers steepled again, his face alight with the pleased expression of a businessman closing a sweet deal, "it was Mirage."

All three Seekers let out a roar of laughter at that, by now thoroughly entertained by Swindle's little proposition, not to mention interested in the extreme. "Mirage!" Starscream snorted. "That prancing little spy? Well, good for him. Proves he has some sense after all. I suppose Sunstreaker hurt his poor little feelings or something?"

"Slag me, those Autobots are such frakking flowers," Skywarp put in.

But Swindle only shrugged, while his optic band pulsated with glee at the trio before him. He had them, hook, line, and sinker. "Dunno, he didn't say," the Combaticon replied. "Just something about payback is all. So I can only assume Sunstreaker had him sniffling into his morning ration at some point. Probably beat the slag outta the spy or something like."

The Seekers shared a chuckle at that. "So much for 'noble' Autobots," Thundercracker grinned. "All that righteous posturing, and look at 'em, taking out hits on each other."

"Exactly," Starscream tipped his wing mate a nice smile, arms crossed. "Which only goes to show that giving them a lesson in manners is really our moral obligation. As Decepticons, that is."

"Not to mention that you'll be earning a few credits for your efforts," Swindle added, "which only makes you fiscally responsible on top of being a moral paragon." At that, everyone laughed.

Now, looking back, Thundercracker supposed he should have seen through that particular conversation, and seen that Swindle was just trying to make a buck, while he, Skywarp, and Starscream were trying to justify beating the ever-loving hell out of Sunstreaker for no real reason -- and attempting to paint themselves as examples of virtue for their efforts. But of course he didn't see it. The idea of taking a whack at Sunstreaker was just too slagging good to ignore, and there he was being bolstered by the laughing, comfortable circle of his best friends, while they planned the mauling and humiliation of an unsuspecting Autobot.

Which should have been their right, not to mention their duty. They were Decepticons, for Primus' sake, and this was war. Who was to say they couldn't eviscerate any Autobot they chose, at any time, and for any reason?

And anyway, it was fun. In fact, it was a downright blast, especially with the crestfallen look on old Sunshine's face when he realized the other Autobots weren't rushing in to save him. Thundercracker recalled laughing as he grappled with the frantic warrior from behind, while Skywarp wrenched Sunstreaker's arm out of its socket, and Starscream smashed his fist over and over into the warrior's face. But it was when Thundercracker finally managed to get the yellow warrior securely pinned that the other Seekers really went to work on him. It was a good, solid, well-earned thrashing, and Thundercracker enjoyed it immensely, every screaming, roaring, bleeding, jeering second of it.

That was, until Sideswipe showed up. He didn't know why that had bothered him. In fact, it surprised him utterly, so much so that he froze when the red warrior waded into the fray, and instead of fighting him off like they should have easily done, Thundercracker and the other Seekers instead found themselves scrambling in retreat, too frozen to offer resistance in the face of Sideswipe's...what?

Sideswipe's what? What was it about the look on Sideswipe's face that had punched so suddenly through Thundercracker's fun like a sword to the neuro-system? Staggering, he'd just had time to see the warrior advancing -- a frantic kind of horror etched across his face -- and it was like being slapped abruptly awake. Grunting harshly, Thundercracker slipped in the pool of fluids, scrambling to gain purchase as he backpedaled away from the enraged Sideswipe. Beside him, Skywarp stumbled, and Thundercracker had just enough to time to yank his wing mate to his feet, before Sideswipe could slam his piledrivers home. He slipped and staggered again in the growing pool of blood, then igniting his thrusters, he launched himself into the air, heaving Skywarp with him just ahead of the assault. Transforming quickly, Thundercracker and the others rocketed away in retreat, but the damage was done, and an ages-old sickness had begun crawling through Thundercracker's systems like a slow and malevolent tide.

None of them spoke, which should have said something right there, really. Megatron demanded to know where they'd been, and even Starscream had only really mumbled something about being "busy", none of them having the bravado to say what they'd really been doing. The truth was, none of them -- not even Skywarp, and that was truly saying something -- was really proud of what they'd just done, and so they each merely stood there, trying very hard not to look at one another, while Megatron ranted and bellowed and cuffed them around a bit for slagging up the plan.

They lost the battle, which put Megatron in a foul mood, naturally, and which didn't help the Seekers' uncanny gloom. Why in Primus' name it should bother them, Thundercracker didn't know, but it did. Maybe it was the sort of sickening sight of the Autobots' jeering faces, while Sunstreaker begged them for help. Maybe it was the sound of everyone laughing themselves sick -- Thundercracker included -- every time Sunstreaker made a noise of pain. Maybe it was the wrenching quality of Sunstreaker's scream, when they held him down and tore his plating away for the sheer fun of it. Or maybe it was the last thing they saw before winging away: not the wreck of an enemy, fairly fought and scrapped, but the sight of Sideswipe kneeling over his twin, his fingers trailing uselessly over the mangled form of his brother.

If there was nobility in any of it, Thundercracker couldn't find it. Between himself and Mirage, nobles born and bred, there lay only a trail of wreckage as testament to their lofty blood. Wreckage, and treachery, and a grieving brother. Somehow, the whole thing made Thundercracker feel cheap.

"Who the slag cares?" Skywarp waved the whole thing away a few days later. Leaning back to toss his feet up on the table, his fingers laced behind his head, he offered up an elaborate optic-roll. "That slaggin' Sunstreaker's always tryin' to scrap us, so what's the big deal? Anyway," he added, shifting to make himself more comfortable, "word has it that fraggin' Autobot medic's managed to salvage him. Again."

"Really?" Starscream looked up from a datapad he'd been studying, and had until that point been (rather uncharacteristically) quietly ignoring Skywarp's every word.

"Yes, really," Skywarp assured him. "The fat old patcher's gone and fragged up our hard work." At that, he hissed out a few choice curses.

Starscream narrowed his optics, face unreadable as he tapped a forefinger against the side of the datapad. "So Sunstreaker is still alive." It was something between a statement and a question.

"Yeah," Skywarp replied rather testily, "alive, functioning, animate, online, take your pick. Now we gotta do the whole thing over again, slaggit. An' I thought we were done with that pipe sucker."

"Well," Starscream perked up slightly, (and though he'd never say it out loud, Thundercracker thought he detected a bit of relief in the Air Commander's voice), "then I guess we'll add that stupid medic to our hit list. I for one am getting sick and tired of him messing up all of our jobs."

"And we do such a _good_ job," Skywarp whined rather explosively. "It's not like I ask much, is it? I go out, I kill a guy, I get my paycheck. Is it too much to ask for the slaggin' guy to stay dead?"

"Uh," Thundercracker pointed out, "you don't actually get a paycheck."

But no one really heard him, and for the next hour or so, Skywarp and Starscream entertained themselves by discussing exactly how they planned to make Ratchet pay. As if it was Ratchet's fault that they'd gone out and done something cowardly, and then spent the next several days moping about it. But that was the way of it, Thundercracker noted with chagrin; any guilt felt by a Decepticon was swept swiftly under the rug, and any blame was shifted as quickly as possible onto someone else. Eons of serving Megatron had taught them to do exactly that; blame and guilt meant a thrashing and possibly worse from Megatron himself. So it was only natural that somehow, in some twisted sort of way, the entire debacle became Ratchet's fault for bringing Sunstreaker back into the land of the living. If only Sunstreaker had gone ahead and died, the whole thing might have been worth something. But he didn't die. He'd lived on as an inconvenient reminder of what they'd done, and now they needed to take it out on someone, because living with guilt just wasn't the Done Thing.

Unfortunately, the Autobots' Chief Medical Officer was somewhat more well-guarded than most, and they never did get their chance to have a go at him. Not yet anyway. But at least the unsuspecting medic served his purpose as scapegoat, so the three Seekers could get on with the war and leave their guilt behind. Stupid slagging Ratchet for bringing Sunstreaker back. It wasn't _their_ fault they'd brutalized the warrior -- that was their job. Right?

And that's where it would have ended if it weren't for Thundercracker's tendency to dwell, and to doubt. The weeks wore on, battles came and went, and at length the Decepticons needed to refuel. The children's hospital was the perfect diversion, and just as Thundercracker's doubts had come back like a punch in the face, he and Starscream found themselves shot down and sitting in a cell deep within the bowels of the Ark, while they stared at the very pair of Autobots who both of them wished least to see.

"You know, it almost makes sense if you watch long enough." Thundercracker was jarred from his thoughts to find Starscream staring rather bemusedly at the brothers' game. "It changes, you see," the other Seeker added, voice sounding a little dreamy.

Almost against his will, Thundercracker shifted his gaze toward the game, and realized he'd been staring at nothing for some time now. "How's that?" he asked absently, mostly to stave off his own thoughts.

"It's a game of balance," Starscream explained, pointing vaguely toward the stones, then putting his finger against his mouth, face thoughtful. "I think, anyway," he added. Then, biting his lip, he went back to watching.

Turning with some difficulty away from his wing mate, Thundercracker looked again toward the brothers. The stones had had thinned by now, and had formed into a spiral-pattern, with the object seeming to be the capture of the middle stone. Several times Thundercracker almost thought he had the rules figured out, and a few times, Starscream opened his mouth as if to comment. But abruptly something new would be added, giving the game an entirely fresh dimension, and Starscream would settle back onto his heels again to watch, while Thundercracker was left to wonder if the Autobots weren't making the whole thing up as they went along.

He sat still for a long time, watching. Arms around his legs, the glow of the energy bars throwing his knees into pale, blue light, Thundercracker sat while the Autobots threw stones, and he saw again in his mind's eye the look on Sideswipe's face the day they'd mauled his brother. He saw it as though it were yesterday, felt the echoes of the warrior's anguished assault as though time were overlapping itself, and washing around his cell in waves. He blinked, wondering if it was his own tiredness, or the mild panic he still felt at being trapped inside this stone mountain, but there it was; the sounds of battle played like ghosts across his mind, the terror and...and something...etched across Sideswipe's face at the sight of what they'd done to his brother. Over and over he saw these things, despite Sideswipe and Sunstreaker sitting quietly before him, and he realized at once that he'd been seeing these things every day and night for the last several weeks.

He opened his mouth, wondered at once what it was he would have said, then closed it again. What was he thinking? What would he say in the face of what he'd done? That he was wrong? Did he even think he was wrong?

Of course he wasn't wrong. He was a Decepticon, dammit. Decepticons were supposed to maul people -- particularly when those people were Autobots. Weren't they? And yet, this was how his life always played itself out: he burned children for fuel, mutilated people's families for a few lousy credits, and raised a glass of high-grade to his own nobility at the end of the day. Was that the existence he was fighting so hard to preserve? Was this the nobility of the Decepticon way? Or were the Autobots just the same, and everyone in the Primus-damned universe was just as low, just as treacherous, as he himself had always been?

It wasn't fair, to pin it all on him. The Autobots were the ones who had taken out the contract, dammit. It was Mirage who had started this whole thing, noble Autobot Mirage. Not Thundercracker. Hell, Thundercracker wasn't even the one who made the call, really. That was Starscream's job, as Air Commander. And Swindle -- Swindle had set up the job. And then there were those slagging minibots, and that preening fat-mouthed Tracks, cheering themselves hoarse like...like low-bred scum at a cockfighting match. It was entertainment, pure and simple -- cheap, bloody, dirty entertainment. And they _all_ enjoyed the sport. _All of them_.

There. There, anger was better -- self-righteous, boiling anger. It wasn't his fault the whole thing went down. Did he start the whole business? No. Hell, Sunstreaker had probably mauled Mirage in the first place, which was why the piss-eating little spy had wanted payback to begin with. So it was probably all Sunstreaker's fault anyway, the sodding glitch. He was a bastard, a down and dirty bastard, and everyone knew it. Hell, everyone _hated_ Sunstreaker, so it's not like it wasn't common knowledge that he was a vicious, hateful son of glitch who deserved a good thrashing anyway.

Fuming, Thundercracker lurched to his feet, but just as quickly as his anger had bloomed, it died away, to be replaced with a mild sort of panic. Within one stride, he'd paced the length of his cell, and something about the rock wall at the back end made his systems suddenly run cold.

He turned, chilled and suddenly alone now that he'd left the quiet circle he hadn't even realized he'd been part of. At his movement, the Autobot brothers had looked up from their game, while Starscream watched him oddly. For a moment, Thundercracker stood at the back of the cell, a shiver forming at the base of his wings. He was scared, being caged under all of this rock, and away from the warm glow of the bars, away from the quiet circle, and now the claustrophobia was beginning again to seep through his systems. For a brief spell, he simply stood there, the shaking spreading now to his legs, his wing tips shivering slightly under the weight of his fear, and he found himself wondering distantly how anger could turn so quickly to fear.

Swiftly, before anyone could say a word, he regained his place by the bars, and felt immediately better as he sank down to sit next to his wing mate. He would never admit it, but there was something comforting about Starscream's presence. When he wasn't being a wheedling gnat, he was a solid friend sometimes.

For a good minute, everyone stared at Thundercracker, while he bent his gaze to the floor. He even thought he saw a quizzical glance pass between the Autobots and Starscream, though no one cared to comment on it. Instead, the brothers merely shrugged and went back to playing, while Starscream gave him a narrow look.

"Something on your mind?" the Air Commander asked a little too quietly, after some minutes had slid by.

"No." Thundercracker didn't even look at him.

"Funny," Starscream pressed the matter, his optics shrewd, his voice very low, "it sure looks like you have something on your mind."

"I don't, Starscream, so just drop it," Thundercracker muttered, and turned his face away.

"Thundercracker..."

"I said drop it," Thundercracker snapped, and earned another brief glance from the Autobots, but that was all. For another moment, Starscream stared, obviously wanting to press the issue. But at length he seemed to decide better of it, and turned back to watch the game.

The game. Why the hell were they playing the damned, stupid game over near the Seekers' cell anyway? Couldn't they just take this slag and go away? He felt like shouting at the Autobots to get the hell away from him, and at least send in someone who he could tolerate staring at for thirty seconds running. Which was no one, really. Running it through, he realized there was probably a list of zero Autobots who didn't make him want to run to the wash rack to scrub off the stink. Bunch of slagging land-crawlers, it made his wings itch, just thinking of it. He hated the Autobots. Hated them. Who the hell did they think they were, sullying the Cybertronian breed with their ignoble, ground-loving ilk? It made him want to spit, thinking of it.

But again his anger passed, like another wave receding in the face of a creeping exhaustion, and at once a new thought occurred to him. Sideswipe muttered something under his breath, making Sunstreaker laugh again, and it very quietly dawned on Thundercracker that they didn't have to be playing their game here at all. Oh, sure, Starscream had said he wouldn't shut up, and maybe they really did think this was a good way to get their captives to be quiet for ten minutes running, but the fact of it was…

Well, the fact of it was, if someone had been yammering their heads off for attention in the Decepticon brig, they would have ended up a whimpering pile of mangled bodywork, or worse. There was no coddling over at DHQ, and that was a cold, hard fact. What was more, there was no room for weakness, and anyone who was so terrified of being contained under tons of rock and steel that they'd blather their fool heads off – to include pissing off their captors just so they didn't have to think about the awful, shivering sensation that was steadily crawling up their frames – well, that kind of mech was sure to be eaten alive. Because weakness was never, ever tolerated. Never, not for a moment, no matter who you were.

But it quite suddenly occurred to Thundercracker that these Autobots had not only refrained from harming their captives, they had, for whatever reason, somehow managed to alleviate their fear. Watching the game, watching the quiet, companionable way the Autobot brothers played, their heads so close together they nearly touched, had somehow made Thundercracker forget to be afraid.

He frowned, as he realized it had been at least two hours since Starscream had complained. Outside of his own outburst, it had been some time since he'd felt his own fear, and in fact, he felt almost lulled. It was almost soothing, this diagram of stones. It lay just beyond his ability to figure the game out, which kept him watching, and kept him forgetting, that there was a mountain between himself and the sky.

Optics narrowed, Thundercracker watched as he wondered. Could it possibly be that these Autobots had known how their game would pique Starscream's affinity for science and puzzles? It was entirely laughable to think that the Autobots had done this on purpose, but there it was, even though his instincts screamed that an Autobot – and especially _these Autobots_ – couldn't possibly show compassion. They couldn't possibly know what it was like to be a caged flier, couldn't possibly even think of Decepticons as mechs who felt and feared and knew weakness. Desperately, Thundercracker tried to wipe the thought away, insisting to himself that an Autobot was nothing more than a target, and that their way of life was ignoble, their efforts nothing more than a stumbling block in the way of the Decepticon conquest for glory. But he couldn't. He couldn't wipe that thought away, and the new fear that started in the back of his mind had nothing to do with the mountain hanging over his head.

What if…what if these two Autobots, these very two who had fought so savagely against the Decepticon jets for so many years -- these two who Thundercracker had so recently wronged -- had actually shown compassion? What if they had understood the Decepticons' unspoken fear, and had settled down to play in front of their cell, not to shut them up, but for the simple reason of keeping them company?

Thundercracker shuddered. That could not be. It couldn't be, because if it was...

"Mine! YES!" Sideswipe hooted, shattering the still, and making Thundercracker jump at the sudden noise. "You," he pointed at his brother, face alight with the dance of a thousand grins, "are a loser!"

Sunstreaker scowled. "Put that back down—"

"I will do no such thing, dear, _sweet_, brother of mine," Sideswipe gestured, one hand on his hip. "Now give 'em here."

"Only 'cause you cheated about a thousand times." Sunstreaker was on his feet, looking sulky.

"Gimme," Sideswipe insisted, and accepted Sunstreaker's cache of stones, as though they were some kind of trophy. "Thank you," he exulted.

"Suck manifold," Sunstreaker deposited the last of the stones in Sideswipe's outstretched hand, and before Thundercracker knew what he was doing, he was on his feet.

"What did you do to them?" he blurted, without knowing why.

The Autobot twins turned to stare at him, and he could see by their identically blank looks that they thought he'd fried a chip.

"What," Sunstreaker blinked, while Sideswipe continued to stare with his grin still half-stretched across his face, "the slag…are you talking about?"

"The ones…Mirage…" Thundercracker tried and failed to make sense. What was he saying?

Sunstreaker half-smirked, optics a little surprised. "Are you still going on about that? Primus."

"I have to know," Thundercracker sputtered, and he could see Starscream watching him closely, shrewdly, in a way that he didn't like.

"What exactly is it you have to know?" Sideswipe, face darkening, didn't exactly look any closer to sharing information on the subject.

"Look," Thundercracker was saying, and it almost amused him that his mouth could move without his processor telling it to, "it wasn't my fault what we did. I'm a Decepticon, you know, it's my job—"

"Shut up, Thundercracker," Starscream's voice floated in warning up from the floor.

"I will not shut up!" Thundercracker banged a fist against the bars, not caring that it hurt. "Just tell me you did to those Autobots what we did to Sunstreaker, and I'll shut my slagging hole, I swear to Primus, _I swear_ – just tell me you made them pay. Tell me."

"What the slag--?" Sideswipe scowled, and shot a nonplussed look in Sunstreaker's direction.

"Tell me!" Thundercracker banged his fists against the bars, sending sparks everywhere.

"Tell you what, you frakking psycho?!" Sideswipe flung his arms up in a wide shrug. " That I beat Mirage senseless? Is that what you wanna hear? What the slag are you so worked up about, anyway? Primus!" He snorted, scowling. "You scrap Sunny, I scrap Mirage, we're all even, remember?"

"So you did scrap Mirage," Thundercracker shifted closer, relief threatening to dawn through him.

"I -- wait." Sideswipe leaned closer, optics narrowing as the light went on, and he slid Thundercracker a frosty smirk "You're not...wait, you're not..._feeling bad_...are you?"

Thundercracker merely stared back, mouth pressed tightly shut. Beside him, Starscream rose slowly to his feet.

"Woah, woah, wait, let me get this straight," Sideswipe held his hands up, shifting his feet under him as he tipped the Seeker an incredulous half-smile. "Are you..." he narrowed his optics even further, "...are you looking for some kind of absolution or some slag like that?" Again, he snorted, this time in open derision.

Which was too much for Starscream, apparently. "Of course he's not," the Air Commander snapped, drawing himself up. "Scrapping your brother was our job, not to mention our _pleasure_. Which we'll take again at our _earliest conven_--"

"Oh shuddup, Starscream," Sideswipe waved him off, still jeering rather unpleasantly in Thundercracker's direction. He let out a satisfied little chuckle. "You mean to tell me," he tipped his head, "that you, of the Supreme Decepticon Seeker Elite" (and here, he absolutely oozed sarcasm), "are actually feeling...how shall we say...some sort of _remorse_ over what you did to Sunstreaker?"

For a moment, Thundercracker merely stared. Now that he had the floor, he had no idea how to say what it was he wanted to say, and he began to feel the creeping flush of mortification. What was he doing, opening his mouth like this? Faltering, he blinked at Sideswipe, while the Autobot watched him keenly. "I don't --" he started, but Starscream cut him off.

"The only remorse we have," his wing mate informed the room at large, "is not finishing the job." Optics narrowed to beady slits, he added, "Unless you want to step in here, and we can take care of that pesky little detail."

But at that, Sideswipe only rolled his optics, and looked far more bored than frightened. "Yeah, yeah, blah, blah, insert grandiose threats here. Listen, are you done?" He blinked at the pair of Seekers for all of point-two seconds, then grabbed Sunstreaker by the shoulder and began steering him toward the other end of the brig. "Come on, bro, let's go find some bad reruns or something. I think --"

"Wait, just --" Thundercracker blurted, then paused, horrified with himself, not even knowing what it was he needed.

Both brothers turned back, and this time Sideswipe looked truly annoyed. "Listen, pal, does this look like some sort of confessional?" He gestured around him. "Do I look like a slagging priest?" Optics darkening, he turned more fully, and Thundercracker realized that underneath the banter, there lay a ragged kind of anger, one that Thundercracker quite honestly knew he deserved.

"No," the Seeker replied. "I -- I just mean, I --" He almost said it. He almost said that he was sorry, and in fact he realized that he was -- not because he felt anything but disgust for Sunstreaker, but because what he'd done...what he'd done hadn't been remotely noble. And it made him ashamed.

"Then tell me," Sideswipe advanced, optics slowly blanching of color, while Sunstreaker hovered behind him, "what the slag you want, or shut the slag up, because I'm done with this slagging topic. Comprende?"

The red warrior stopped a pace from the cell, where he stared Thundercracker in the face, his optics gone flat as ice. For a moment, the Seeker stared at the red warrior, and he realized he couldn't recall the last time he'd really seen him so close, and what's more, standing so still. It was like looking at someone he didn't know, and it unnerved him, for reasons he couldn't quite put into words. "Listen, it...it wasn't personal," he said at last, fully aware of Starscream staring a hole in the side of his head. "I was just...doing my job. Is all."

It sounded lame, coming out like that, and by the darkening look on his face, it seemed that Sideswipe felt the same. "Wasn't personal," he repeated.

"No, it --"

"Just doing your job," the warrior interrupted him, his tone dangerously flat.

"Of course we were doing our job," Starscream snapped, sounding less peevish now, and more angry. "Did you see the insignia on our wings, or did you need subtitles? _We're Decepticons_."

"Oh really," Sideswipe replied dryly, while Sunstreaker remained silent behind him, "and the paycheck for that's what -- somewhere around thirty silver coin?"

"Oh please," Starscream actually barked out a laugh at that, and crossed his arms. "Now look who's getting dramatic. It's not exactly treachery when we're on opposite sides, moron."

"Hey," Sideswipe threw up his hands, matching Starscream's laugh with a derisive look of his own, "I'm not arguing with you. But then, I'm not the one with my tail fins all in a tizzy over it, am I? He is." He jerked his head to indicate Thundercracker, and shot the blue Seeker a sardonic look. "Aren't you, huckleberry?"

The warrior seemed to be recovering his humor somewhat, which Thundercracker found convenient, as it served to fuel is irritation. "Hey," he countered, and was surprised at the roughness of his own voice, "it wasn't my idea, ok? That's all I was saying."

"Ooooh," Sideswipe nodded, pressing his palms together in a mock-sage expression, "it wasn't your idea. Well that's ok then. Is this the part where we all join hands and sing about rainbows or some slag?"

"Well, it wasn't," Thundercracker growled, hardly appreciating the warrior's lack of gravity. He felt like the conversation was slipping away from him somehow, turning into something he hadn't meant it to be. "Look, how's it different from any other battle?"

"Well, gee," Sideswipe pulled a thoughtful face, "typically you don't get paid for it. And it's usually not a setup. Oh, and there's generally no cheering audience though, I will grant you, ripping someone's bodywork apart really is more gratifying when it's a gang effort. It was Sunstreaker against...how many?"

Thundercracker snorted. "Three on one is hardly a gang effort."

"Oh, but I was counting the Autobots, too," Sideswipe replied. "So it was more like eight on one. And hey!" He widened his optics in mock surprise. "Was it just my imagination, or were you and those five Autobots all on the _same side_ for this little escapade?"

Thundercracker opened his mouth to retort, and found he didn't have one.

"Oh, you _were_ on the same side," Sideswipe rolled on, clearly pleased with himself. "So that means you were...just doing your job? Or was it something else? Considering that you and a bunch of Autobots were working together and all."

"Side," Sunstreaker said softly. Arms crossed, standing a few paces behind his brother, his face was unreadable. "Just drop it."

But Sideswipe was in no way dropping it, and instead stood holding Thundercracker's gaze in fiery contempt. "Hey, it wasn't my idea, ok?" Thundercracker scowled in return, feeling less and less in control of the situation, and wondering why he couldn't just let it go himself. Who cared what some Autobot thought of him? Who cared if he got paid for mauling Sunstreaker? No one liked the son of a glitch anyway. "If we hadn't done it, Swindle woulda just paid someone else."

"Swindle, right," Sideswipe nodded, while Sunstreaker looked increasingly uncomfortable. "So you're blaming Swindle now."

"Side --"

"Shut it, Sunstreaker," Sideswipe snapped over his shoulder. "Our fine blue friend wants to talk. Let him talk."

"Look," Thundercracker shot back, "I'm not saying Swindle held a gun to my head or anything. I'm just saying it wasn't personal. That's all."

"Sure felt personal," Sideswipe said bluntly. "Usually when someone takes a hit out, it's personal. I mean, maybe it's just me, but taking a hit out on someone's kinda cold."

"Well, I didn't take the hit out," Thundercracker countered, blame-shifting as a matter of course. "Slagging Mirage did."

"Oh, that's right," Sideswipe nodded. "I see now. You don't have to blame Swindle, because you can blame Mirage. Beautiful logic, that. Puts the blame back on us Autobots. Lets you keep up that whole 'noble Decepticon' facade you got going."

"Hey," Starscream pointed out, "Mirage is the one who paid for the job. And don't even try telling me Sunstreaker didn't do something to deserve it." Smiling nastily, he added, "Pissed off the little spy pretty good, didn't you?"

Sunstreaker said nothing, and again Sideswipe was nodding, a glinting light now forming in his optics. "So now," he replied, ignoring Starscream and staring Thundercracker in the face, "you can just blame Sunstreaker for the whole mess, can't you, since clearly he must have done something to earn it. I mean, in the end, Sunstreaker was just getting what he deserved. Am I right?" He smiled, but his optics were cold.

A moment of uncomfortable silence passed, during which Sideswipe glared at the Seekers in turn, and Sunstreaker stood to the side, looking down and away. There was something almost vulnerable about Sunstreaker's quiet stance, something that made Thundercracker feel a little lost, something which sunk past his ability to keep out his doubts. He wanted so badly to be angry, to keep riling Sideswipe until they could both comfortably spend themselves in a shouting match and each walk away feeling smugly self righteous when all was said and done. But it wasn't to be, and whatever doubts had begun the day they'd beaten Sunstreaker, Thundercracker knew now that they would never go away. How easy it was at ten thousand feet to drop hate and explosives on the crawling dots below. But this...in fact, there was something very personal about this whole affair, something which had caught him out of the clouds, and brought him down to where he had no choice but to look himself in the face. And as ever, he did not like what he saw.

But what hope was there for him of ever untangling the mess? He was a Decepticon, and there was no changing that fact, no matter what his doubts. If he wasn't a Decepticon, who was he? And where in the universe could he go?

"Ok," Starscream's voice, oddly pitched in a rather placating tone, broke through Thundercracker's thoughts. "Maybe we all just need to calm down. Thundercracker," he felt a hand on his shoulder, though distantly, "why don't you have a seat?"

It wasn't a request, and there was that part of Thundercracker -- a very tired, spent part -- that wanted only to comply as he'd always complied. He wanted to just sit down, and shut up, and forget all that he'd been thinking. But there was something about the look on Sideswipe's face that kept him rooted, if only for a moment more. Looking down, he saw past the hard, angry light in the warrior's optics, and what he read there made him pause: very simply, that Sideswipe loved his brother more than his own life, that he had never harmed a child, and that, amidst the flawed layers of his nature, there was a nobility in the Autobot's optics that Thundercracker knew he himself could never hope to possess.

For a moment, Sideswipe stared back at him, his gaze steady as he waited. But whatever the Autobot thought, Thundercracker never knew, because at once Starscream was ushering him toward the seat the back of the cell, and Sunstreaker was propelling Sideswipe rather forcefully back toward the watch station.

And that was the end of it. Morning came, and by then, Thundercracker had successfully managed to stuff his reservations away again, and had gone back to moodily picking at the foliage in his fuselage, while Starscream whined about nothing and everything in particular. At first his wing mate had watched him keenly, prepared to launch into any diatribe necessary in order to prod Thundercracker back into line. It was a kindness, really, when Thundercracker really paused to think about it. It was Starscream's way of helping Thundercracker to survive in a war that was bigger than both of them. Sure, Starscream was a backstabbing, conniving, black-sparked little schemer, but underneath that he was also smart enough to know that keeping Thundercracker in line meant keeping him alive. There were no ex-Decepticons. Starscream knew that. And so he protected Thundercracker in the only way he knew how: by never letting him go.

Of course, that wasn't all sunshine and roses, as Thundercracker was forced to admit by mid-morning, when Starscream's whining had hit full stride again. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker had long since left, to be replaced by a more conversationally dull, yet safer Trailbreaker. The big, black Autobot had seemed particularly hard to rile, not that Starscream didn't give it his best effort, and by midday Thundercracker was having serious thoughts about putting the Air Commander through the wall.

But then, just like that, they were free to go. Whatever deal was made for their release, Thundercracker neither knew nor cared, and by the day's end, he was back in Decepticon Headquarters, his fuselage twig-free, and he by nightfall he was drunk as a dead pig. He had to put up with Skywarp's jeering about getting shot down, of course, and about three rounds into the evening, he thought he recalled getting into a fist fight with Wildrider over nothing in particular. But by about the fifth or sixth round, he'd forgotten everything, and was laughing himself sick while Ramjet told them all how he'd just blown some mini bot to hell. Something about flailing legs and burning tires -- by the end of it, Thundercracker was on the floor. Literally. In a pool of his own regurgitated fluids. Laughing, and laughing, and laughing.

But it had always been this way, he found himself musing distantly as he floundered in the muck, and it always would be. And besides, it really wasn't so bad as long as he had Starscream and Skywarp to haul him back to his feet again. It wasn't so bad at all.

Was it?

* * *

A/N: I keep getting asked if there's more to "The Lost". This was a chapter I had written a while back, didn't like, and put away for a while. I rewrote most of it, and now it stands in its current form as Chapter 6. It may get another minor rewrite down the road, but this is closer to how I think it should go, and it will stand as it is for now.

Yes, there is one last chapter. No, it hasn't been written yet. Yes, I'm going to write it. Stay tuned. :)


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